


Soul Hates

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison does not exist, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endgame Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Established Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Good Parent Melissa McCall, Graphic Description, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Malia does not exist, Manipulation, Minor Melissa McCall/Sheriff Stilinski, Multi, Secrets, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, endgame Stetopher, past historical torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8062261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: Stiles always knew that Peter Hale was his soulmate, he just didn't expect that Peter's was somebody else.   “I found the documents, Peter,” Stiles said, his teeth grinding together in a hiss. “I found them. My name was never  on your arm. You. Lied.”





	1. White Lies

**Author's Note:**

> I'm absolutely obsessed with soulmate Aus, and I've been wanting to write one for a very long time.

“You lied to me!” Stiles screamed. 

His hands clenched into tight fists that bruised from the sheer force of it. In his right palm he held a piece of paper crumpled past recognition. He considered burning it, tearing it, letting it wash down the drain. In the end, he couldn't bring himself to destroy the very thing that destroyed him, his relationship, his entire world. He wanted it too much as evidence. His eyes narrowed to sharp slits as he stared at the werewolf on the sofa. 

Peter watched him with a stony expression. His shoulders were stiff, his lips sealed. He said nothing when Stiles came storming in the room, and he said nothing when Stiles accused him. All he did was sit on the couch, the book still in his hand. Stiles knew that posture- deceptively relaxed but gearing for a fight. He'd seen it many a time before. 

“What are you talking about, love?” he asked, neither admitting or denying. His tone was the picture of perfect innocent. 

“I found the fucking documents, Peter,” Stiles said, his teeth grinding together in a hiss. “I found them. My name was _never_ on your arm. You. Lied.” 

They both looked to Peters wrist, where the skin had been so badly burnt the soul mark was completely worn away. In his hand the paper of Peter's true soul marking - the photocopies of his wrist – showed very clearly, in bold letters, _Christopher Argent_ not Stiles Stilinski. His pain gave way to a blinding whirlwind of rage. 

“Why didn't you fucking tell me?” he shouted. Tears flooded down his cheeks with a hot, searing intensity.

Peter sighed and sat up, setting his book to the side. “Because you didn't need to know.” He brushed a hand through his hair, as nonchalant as if they were talking about the weather. 

“I didn't need to know that my soulmate has a _different_ soulmate?” Stiles raised a brow. “Dear god, tell me how that makes _any_ sense at all.” 

“Christopher and I are never going to be together. It would never work. Put it from your mind. We don't need to be having this conversation, Stiles.” 

“Bullshit we don't! You've been lying to me for _three years_. Three fucking years!” 

“Christopher Argent is dead, that's all you need to know.” Peter's posture got a little more guarded. His head turned towards the window, away from the infuriated boy he once called his fiance. 

Stiles didn't think that descriptor was true anymore. 

“Do _not_ lie to me Peter!” Stiles gritted his teeth. “Not right now. Not now.”

“Fine. He isn't dead. Does that make you feel better?” Peter crossed his arms as what little remained of his composure dropped. He stood from the sofa and turned back towards his 'mate.' His eyes were cold and distant, not the loving blue gaze Stiles had grown accustomed to. 

“How long has this been going on?” Stiles demanded. “How long have you been sneaking around my back with _him_.” A million and one possibilities ran through Stiles' head. He thought of every single night Peter was a little late coming home, every time he refused to talk about something that upset him. 

“Don't jump to any conclusions.” Peter edged towards him. 

Stiles edged away. He backed up to the door. His things from when he went camping with Scott were still in the trunk of his car. 

“Conclusions about the soulmate you've been hiding for three fucking years? Are you two sneaking around behind my back? Have you fucked him in our bed?” Traitorous scenarios pelted his mind like hail, each worse than the last. He thought of the way Peter's hands gently caressed his cheek after sex, and he wondered if he did that with his _other_ mate too. He had longed for years to finally feel intimate with his mate, to finally have the bond he craved, and it had all been swept away with one little paper, and two little words. 

“No,” Peter said. “I've never fucked him _anywhere_. I do not know where he is now, or what he's doing. I don't even know where he lives anymore.” The werewolf shrugged. “He may not be dead in a physical sense, no, but he's dead to me.” 

“What do you mean _anymore_? What happened? Tell me the truth!” Stiles' hands balled up impossibly tighter, he could feel the paper tearing his hand. 

Peter looked back at Stiles. His eyes were exhausted, but apprehensive. 

Stiles analyzed his expression, searching for every little muscle tick Peter made when he lied, and he realized that none were present. Peter's eyes were a deeper shade of blue than they'd ever been, his lips formed the most genuine frown. 

“We knew each other briefly in high school. That's all. There was no romance, no affair, nothing. After some psycho tried to burn my house down and caused _this_ -” Peter motioned towards the chalk white skin of his arm, the place Stiles name should have been, “-we lost touch. He transferred to a different school, and I never tried to contact him. That's the long and the short of it. Put it. To rest.” 

Stiles went quiet for a second, staring deeply into Peters' eyes. The wolf he loved for the past three years – three very long years- stared back at him, only he didn't look like the person Stiles remembered. He'd always known his mate was tricky, deceitful, dishonest, but in all their relationship he'd never been dishonest with him, not when it really mattered. Except for now. It tore a whole in every word Peter had ever spoken to him, made him second guess every touch, every whisper, ever loving embrace. He could practically feel his heart splitting in two. 

“See, the thing is,” he said in a dull, deadened voice, a voice that sounded unnaturally quiet after all the screaming he'd just done. The words still grated in his throat. “I just . . . . don't believe you. I don't, I can't. You had another soulmate this whole time and you never mentioned him once.” What was worse then the thought of Peter having sex with another was the thought of Peter being _intimate_ with another, of him loving someone and whispering in his ears how much he loved and cared for them, the same exact praises of worship he'd uttered to Stiles just a few nights ago. “

I think . . . I think I have to leave.” With the paper still clutched in his hand, Stiles turned towards the door. He heard Peter sigh behind him, and the noise was practically _patronizing._

“You aren't leaving,” Peter said. “You're mad now, but you'll calm down. Just come sit with me and we'll talk, I'll make you-” 

Stiles' head whipped around again. “ _Mad?_ You think I'm fucking _mad_?”  
Peter stepped back, taken away for a moment. 

“I'm not mad I'm _livid_.” He struggled to keep himself from raising his voice again. 

“I am leaving, and I don't know when I'll come back. With that attitude, maybe I just won't.” Saying it brought a quiver to Stiles' voice. He meant it, every word he said he meant, but it still hurt.

“No, you aren't.” Peter crossed his arms. “Come back here, right now.” 

“Oh, fuck you!” He laughed bitterly. “I don't belong to you. I'm not yours. I can do whatever the hell I want, and I _want to leave_.” In his own head, he was already out the door and in his car, peeling away from the awful house. He took a step back from the wolf. 

Peter's expression changed, almost subtly. Almost. 

“If you don't belong to me,” he said slowly, “then why is my name on your wrist?” 

Stiles froze. All thoughts in his brain came to a screeching halt. 

“Stiles, _stay_.” Peter looked at him, cold, unemotional. 

What little remained of his self-control, of his phantom feelings for Peter snapped and evaporated. 

“Wow, you know what? You just made this a hell of a lot fucking easier. Goodbye, Peter. Good fucking bye. Enjoy your fucking life, with fucking Christopher Argent!” He snatched his keys off the key ring in the corner, deciding -without thinking -exactly what he needed to do. It was good he didn't think about it, because if he had he might not have had the strength.

“Stiles, wait.” 

He could hear Peters footsteps following behind him. The wolfs voice was much lighter, apologetic. It was a practiced tone. 

Stiles wrenched open the front door with a violent force that caused it to recoil back from the wall, leaving a small dent in the paint. Peters' hand touched his shoulder. Stiles jerked away and marched down the steps. The night air brushed his face with chilly fingers but he didn't even notice it. 

“ _Stiles_ , I didn't mean that, okay? Just come back inside,” Peter pleaded. 

Stiles ignored him. He marched towards his jeep, exactly where he'd parked it behind Peter's black Mercedes. A vicious, vindictive thought made him think for a second how satisfying it would be to ram his car forward and damage the pretty, sleek, thing. But he wouldn't bother poisoning his beautiful jeep with the touch of that awful thing. 

“Stiles, wait!” Peter still chased after him, only an inch or so behind. 

Stiles grabbed his car's door handle and grasped it. The handle stuck. He furrowed his brow and tried to pull it open again. It always stuck at the worst fucking times. 

“Stiles, please. Let me talk to you,” Peter breathed. 

“No!” Stiles growled. “I don't want to talk to you. Not anymore, not ever again.” 

“I didn't mean anything by what I said before, I just got a little heated. We both did. You're not really leaving, you're just-” 

“Yes, I am!” He wrenched the handle open again. The car door opened with a creak. 

“Okay, fine!” Peters' hand slammed down on the door, forcing it shut and trapping Stiles with his body pressed to the metal and his back to Peters firmly muscled chest. Stiles clenched his eyes shut. 

“Yes, I lied to you. But c'mon, it's me. Did you really expect me to be a boy scout?” he begged, so uncommonly desperate. He sounded uneasy, on edge. The calm collected Peter had gone and left in its place someone worried to the core. He could hear the quivering in his voice as he talked, the unspoken fear. His hand left the car door and slid over Stiles tightly tensed shoulders, down his arms, and to his hips. 

“Please, Stiles. Think about this. Think about how painful it would be for you to break our bond?” 

Stiles closed his eyes, letting a few tears leak out. The problem was he didn't know anymore if this was the real Peter or the fake who'd manipulated him into falling in love. 

“I didn't expect you to be perfect,” Stiles voice cracked as he responded. “I never expected you to be perfect. I expected you to be my _boyfriend_ , my _mate_. I knew you were a snake, but I still loved you anyways. Now you expect me to risk getting bit again?” He cast a glance towards the back of the car and saw the duffle bag he knew contained a pair of pajamas and a few days worth of outfits. 

“Stiles.” Peters' hands dug into his hips one last time. Then they pulled away, leaving chilly night air in their place. 

Stiles body felt shamefully cold without the wolf's warmth at his back. 

“Be safe. I love you,” Peter whispered.

Stiles stayed pressed where he was for one very long second. He took a deep, shuddering breath to compose himself. Then he finally opened the car door without resistance. 

“Fuck you.” Stiles eyes finally spilled over. “I don't know how I feel about you.” He finally managed to clamber inside the vehicle and put on his seat belt. With shaking hands, it took him longer than necessary. He started the vehicle. 

Peter still stood by the window. 

“Stiles,” he reached over and through the window to clasp Stiles hand, holding it tightly with two of his own. “I know you're upset right now, I know you're feeling hurt. Do you really want to end three years of a great relationship? Over some dumb fairy-ta-” 

“It wasn't dumb enough for you to be honest with me.” Stiles yanked his hand back. His shoulders tensed in anticipation and he gripped the wheel tighter. “Either move or I'll run you over, Peter.” 

Peter wordlessly stepped back, but not before making one last ditch effort to get him back in the house. 

“What about your pillow? You can't sleep without it.”

Stiles laughed bitterly. “You know what? I actually think I'll sleep just fine without you by my side. Maybe all these years I couldn't sleep was because of you. Maybe my subconscious knew what an awful, vile, _wretch_ of a person you are.” 

Peter winced. His eyes softened. 

Stiles expected something more, prepared himself mentally for some plea, some persuasion, something. Yet Peter just watched him. Finally, after a few moments, he said six last words. 

“. . . Be safe, Stiles. Come home soon.” He took his hand off the car and stepped back. 

Stiles nodded, with the tears still draining from his eyes. 

He drove ten miles back to where he knew no one would judge him for storming out on Peter, hell he'd probably even be praised for it. He didn't even remember the drive. He felt locked out of his own mind as all he could do was _feel_. 

When he arrived at the house none of the lights were on. That wasn't unusual by any means. Stiles dragged himself up the porch, his bag slung over his shoulder. He only bothered to flick on the hall light as he slugged into the living room of his childhood home. His eyes were red and puffy with tears he couldn't remember having shed, his throat a scratchy mess, and his lips were bitten raw. He continued to chew on them as he walked to the sofa. He collapsed down onto it, snatching the throw blanket and pulling it up to his chin. His heart felt like it would burst. The old, musty smell of the blanket brought him some comfort, though his heart still sang out in pain. 

He didn't know how much time passed while he was lying prone underneath the blanket, but soon the lights were flipped on around him. Stiles lifted his head to see a familiar face standing in the doorway of the living room. His eyes settled on the bag by the entrance, and then on his sons joyless face. His confused expression turned to one of anger. 

“Who do I need to kill?” he asked seriously. 

“Peter,” Stiles choked out. “Kill Peter.” He let himself devolve into a muddled pile of wet sniffles and broken sobs. 

“Oh, kid,” the sheriffs face turned sorrowful. He moved to the sofa and sat down, pulling Stiles into his tight embrace. They hugged so tightly Stiles worried his ribs might break. “Tell me what happened.” 

Stiles wiped his eyes on his sleeve to compose himself. 

“I found his papers from just after the fire. They were in this chest in the attic. My name wasn't on his arm, some other guys was. I thought maybe it was a relatives or . . . or . . . “ he lost control of himself at the brutal and still raw memory of sitting in the attic, papers resting on his lap. The name 'Christopher Argent' stood out amidst the scar tissue of Peter's burnt and blistered skin.s

“I'm so sorry kiddo,” the sheriff whispered. “I know how hard this must be.” 

Stiles clung to his jacket, burying his face in the familiar feel of his work jacket and the smell of paperwork and cheap aftershave. If he concentrated hard enough he thought he could smell just the faint hint of Melissa McCall's perfume on him too. His warm, calloused hands rubbed soothing circles in his sons back. 

“You don't seem that surprised by it,” Stiles wiped at his tear-drowned eyes and pulled away from his fathers' arms.

“I always hated Peter,” the sheriff said simply. 

“You have always hated Peter,” Stiles agreed. Something clicked in his brain just then, something dark and barely noticeable. He remembered begging his dad to look up Peters records so he could see his soul mark for himself. 

The sheriff refused. Peter wouldn't consent, saying it reminded him too much of the fire that almost claimed his entire family. 

“You've _always_ hated Peter, but you never gave me a reason why.” Stiles eyes narrow and it forced several more tears down his cheeks. “You knew,” he near whispered. The ache in his heart grew wider. “Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me that you knew he was lying?” He felt anger but more than that he felt betrayal. Peter stabbed the first knife into his heart, and his fathers' guilty face thrust in a second. 

“Because you needed to leave Peter for the right reasons; not because you believed in some old stories. It didn't change the fact that his name was on your arm, and it didn't change the fact that you were so irrevocably in love with him you would have married him the very first night you met, I'm certain of it. If I told you he was lying, and Peter denied it, I'm sure you would have run off with him anyways.” John's grip tightened around him. 

“. . . I don't know about that,” Stiles said. “You're still my dad, even if he is- was my soulmate.” He recognized the truth in some of his dads words; he'd been obsessed with Peter from the very first day they met. He wanted to be together constantly. “I don't know how you could just let him do this to me.”

John hesitated. “Peter and I had a talk, you remember? When you introduced me to him.” 

Stiles nodded. “Yeah,” he wiped his eyes. “Here I thought it was just the normal 'you hurt my kid; I'll kill you,' sort of stuff.”

“There was some of that too,” John reassured. “But I told him whatever his intention was, with keeping this secret from you, if you ever came home crying, or hurt, in any way I wouldn't hesitate to ruin him. He said he just wanted to protect you. I – I didn't want to risk losing you to him.”

“How many other people know? Does Scott know?” Paranoid thoughts swirled around, whispering evil things into his ears. The sheriff frowned. “Does the whole _town_ know?” 

“Melissa knows. I think if she told Scott you would have found out about it by now. So that's it, just the two of us.”

Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“This has been the worst day of my life.” Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to stay infuriated with his father. His heart couldn't take it. Not being angry at both him and Peter at once. He was certain he would drown in his own misery if he let that happen. 

“Do you hate me?” John asked. 

“. . . No. Only because there isn't enough room in my heart right now.” 

John gave him a sympathetic shoulder squeeze. “C'mon kid, I'll get you a drink.” 

Stiles followed his father into the kitchen, flopping down in his usual chair. John put a shot glass in front of him and poured a generous amount of whiskey into it. Stiles knocked it back with a grimace. He nodded that he wanted more and John obliged him. He could have laughed at the irony, after all the times Stiles had intentionally gotten his father drunk to find out secrets, now John was plying him with alcohol to help him forget one. 

They drank in silence until Stiles started to sway back and forth in his chair. He reached for the bottle, but John pulled it away. 

“How can you just, just be with shomeone for threeee fucking years, and know sho little about them?”the younger Stilinski slurred.

“Think you've had enough, kid.” 

“I'm no'a kid, I'm twen'y-three.” He slumped his head against the table. Even swimming in inebriation he couldn't shake the feeling of betrayal or dread looming over him. All the alcohol did was slow his thoughts to a point where he could no longer turn them into sentences. 

“Dad, do you believe in soulmates?” he asked, tilting his swaying head to one side. The sheriff looked at his wrist, where Claudia's name was still visible. It had faded over time, no longer the dark brown it appeared as when he was three, but the name was still there, still legible, and still very much loved. His parents' wedding photo, the one with their hands clasped tightly together and their wrists showing their mark still held its prominent place in the living room. 

The man hesitated. “I believe in love.” He thumbed lightly over his mark. 

Stiles nodded, too drunk and too emotionally drained to give the answer a once over. He reached for the bottle again, which John quickly pulled from his grasp. He gave a halfhearted glare and let his head fall back onto the table. The alcohol sloshed around in his empty stomach, making him feel just a little queasy. He thought throwing up all over the floor might make him feel a little better. Just a little. Unfortunately, he literally had nothing in his stomach to spew. He'd been waiting for Peter to get home before he ate. They always had dinner together. At least his empty stomach helped him get drunk a lot quicker than usual. 

“ _I_ believe in soulmates; but if I'm not Peter's, then who's mine? Why would I not want to be with the person who's got my name on his arm?” Stiles groaned and put his arms over his head. 

“I can't tell you that,” John frowned. “You've had a lot to deal with today.” 

“Fuck Christoper Argent,” he said definitively, slumping back down on the table. “Fuck him right to hell,” Stiles scoffed. “I bet Peter fucked him. He says he didn't, but I think he did. First, he said they don't know each other, then he says they knew each other in high school. You don't just 'know' you're soulmate in high school and have nothing happen.” 

“Christopher Argent?” John repeated. His eyebrows lifted just slightly. 

“D'ya know him?” Stiles asked suspiciously. His eyes widening in drunken bewilderment. 

“I think I remember the name from a case a few years back, but it's hazy.” John shook his head. He leaned over and patted Stiles softly on the arm. “I'll try to remember what I know, and we can have that conversation in the morning. Okay?” 

“Oh, of course. Has to be another criminal, right? I can't just have a soul mate who's happy, well rounded, honest,” Stiles looked wistfully up into the air. “Fuck Peter _and_ Christopher Argent. Both to hell.” 

“I think maybe I should take you upstairs, kiddo.” 

“I think we should bury Peter's body in the woods. Bury him and forget about him. How many favors can ya call in?” Stiles hiccuped. “We might need the whooooole SWAT team on this.” 

John smiled weakly and got to his feet. “C'mon, up to your room, kiddo. We'll talk about murder plans in the morning.” He helped drag Stiles up to his feet, guiding him towards his childhood bedroom. “I think you should get to bed before you fall asleep on the table.” 

“Okay.” Stiles agreed, letting himself be pushed and pulled up the stairs in an awkward, stumbling way. “Thanks, dad.” He let himself lean against his fathers' shoulder, knowing he wouldn't be dropped. 

“You're welcome.” 

When they reached his door Stiles hugged him tight. “I love you, dad. Don't be lying to me about other things, okay?” 

John patted his back, looking a little guilty as he did. “I love you too, Stiles. I'm not lying to you about anything else. I promise.” 

“You're a really great dad.” 

“You're a really great son.” 

Stiles stumbled into his darkened room, flopping down on the covers as if he'd never moved out. The blankets – now a little musty from disuse – were pulled out from under his body and wrapped around him by hands he wished were Peter's. Stiles clenched his eyes shut and fell asleep, cuddling the wrist to his chest that bore Peters name.


	2. Morning After

In the morning Stiles automatically reached for Peter. His hand hit dead air. 

He was afraid to open his eyes because he knew what he wouldn't see. His mate would not be there, sleeping perfectly still with his usually immaculate hair in tragic disarray, his muscled abdomen on full display. Stiles curled inwards, taking comfort in the pillow pressed to his chest. It was just as good as any wolf, only not as warm, not as funny, not as sarcastic, not as loving, or as comforting. 

So long as his eyes were closed Stiles didn't have to face the truth. He could pretend this was his bed, the very same one he and Peter picked out on the eve of their anniversary and spent the entire night 'christening.' He complained the blankets were too cold, Peter said they were too hot. He wanted more pillows, Peter wanted less. 

Stiles gripped his pillow tight and buried his face in it. He groaned in pain when his soul bond gave a strong and definitive tug. That horrible thing that would bind him, always and forever, towards Peter fucking Hale. 

His eyes were forced open as the terrible ache made him wretch and jerk. He felt a rising in his stomach. He keeled over the side of the bed just in time to throw up a spew of brightly colored chunks onto the carpet. 

_Oh, so it's not my soul bond_. He collapsed against the side of the bed, breathing heavily against the wooden frame. He clenched his eyes shut and the world swam around him. The blood rushed to his head as he hung over the side. 

“Uuuugh,” he groaned. He wrinkled his nose as the smell of alcohol and vomit made him want to throw up again. He dragged himself off the bed – avoiding his mess – and lurched into the bathroom, where he quickly bestowed the toilet with the rest of his shallow stomach contents. He heaved over the bowl for a minute more, wondering how it was possible to feel so sick and so nauseous without dying. A dull throb in the back of his head made the whole situation that much worse.

As soon as he was confident that nothing else would escape his throat he leaned back against the tiled wall. From there he could see is own sickly reflection in the shower glass. 

His skin was greener than normal, dark bags hung under his eyes, his normally pink lips were cracked and pale. He felt like he hadn't had a drop of water in over a year. His stomach gnawed at him in a twisting sensation of hunger and discontent. He could still kind of feel the alcohol mixing around in his belly, like a poison that had yet to take.

When he couldn't stand to sit any longer he shed his clothes and crawled into the tub. He stumbled on his feet as the dizziness in his brain made the walls spin around him. He looked down to steady himself and wished he hadn't. He cringed at the sight of Peter's name, boldly emblazoned on his wrist. A while back he'd wanted to get the mark tattooed so it would look less faded and more permanent against his skin. He tried to persuade Peter to do the same. 

The wolf's reluctance took a whole new light. 

He used his unmarked arm to turn the shower faucet. 

“Ah! What the fuck!” he jumped back as a spray of cold water hit him directly in the face. He covered his head with his hands and jerked the nozzle from 'cold' to 'hot' with an angry hiss. 

“Is everything conspiring against me today?” he rasped to nothing in particular. Nothing, in particular, answered back. 

He squinted his wet eyes open and grasped for his towel, wiping the water away from his face. It didn't take long for the shower to warm up and heat his skin. He let it grow to a scalding point, almost wishing he could burn Peter's name off the same way _Christopher Argent's_ had been burned from Peters. 

_No wonder the fire brings up such bad memories for him,_ Stiles thought bitterly. 

He let the warmth rinse the unappealing scent from his body. The shampoo he used was odorless, unlike the mint ones he'd grown familiar with. He took comfort in it, and used a generous amount in his hair, intentionally prolonging his shower until the water grew cold enough to be unsettling. 

He stepped out onto the tiled floor and grabbed a towel. It was rougher, cheaper, texture than his and Peter's. He bit his lip and dried himself quickly, trying not to dwell on thoughts of the hedonistic werewolf. 

He was almost grateful for the pile of vomit awaiting him in his room. Almost. 

On the way back he paused on top of the stairs and called his father's name. He got no response. That was a bit of a relief. 

It was a Saturday, so the man was probably at work or taking Melissa out. Either way, Stiles was happy he wouldn't have to deal with the man for another six or seven hours. He still hadn't forgiven him for his part in the lie, but he couldn't bring himself to hate his father, not the same way he hated Peter. 

He pulled the spare change of clothes out of his duffel bag. It was only a T-shirt and some gray sweatpants he'd meant to use as pajamas, but hadn't actually made it to changing into them before he passed out on his bed. He put them on anyways, it wasn't like he had anyone to dress up for now, and it was better than keeping his old ones on. 

Cleaning the mess took a while, but at least it gave him something to do other than sit and mourn. He wished he would have remembered that his trash bin had been sitting by the bed the entire time. Once he was satisfied that the carpet was thoroughly cleaned, and the smell fled his nostrils he was faced with what to do next. He shifted awkwardly around on his feet. 

Normally, he would have gotten up early and tried to study a little before class. He sighed, remembering he'd left his books back at his house, with Peter. His duffel bag only had maybe a pen and some paper, not really study material. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He hadn't realized just how entwined his life had become with wolf's. Every second they weren't working they spent together. Their only time apart was when Scott visited and those times were few and far between. 

_I have to go back,_ he realized with mixed feelings. He wanted to go back, he wanted to be in his own home with his clothes, his books, his laptop. He didn't want to be there with Peter. He checked the time; just past ten a.m. Peter would be at work. He could sneak in and out, be gone before he ever came home. 

He snagged the keys from where they'd stayed in his pants pocket and headed out the door. He climbed into his jeep, cringing at the sight of the crumpled photocopy in the passenger side. He grabbed the badly torn paper and stuffed it into the glove compartment, out of sight, but not out of mind. 

The sunlight beat down on him as he drove towards the home he and Peter shared. He kept the windows rolled down all the way. The noise from the wind drowned out his thoughts, and the refreshing breeze kept the encroaching nausea from gaining too much sway over him. His stomach rumbled and rolled in its unsettled state, but food was the last thing on his mind. 

He jerked the car to a stop when he saw the pristine, black Mercedes sitting in the driveway. His hands gripped the wheel tighter, whitening his knuckles. He worried his lip a little, wondering if he should just drive past. A faint fluttering of the window curtain warned him it would be too late. Peter undoubtedly already heard the car clunking itself up the drive. 

Reluctantly he pulled forward the rest of the way and put his vehicle into park. He saw the curtains close again and the front door open. Stiles took a deep breath and got out of the car slowly. 

“Stiles,” Peter said, already waiting at the top of the stairs. His ice blue eyes were dull and weary, but his voice was hopeful. He was uncharacteristically unkempt as his hair was still in its early morning mess. “You came-” 

“I just want my shit, asshole. Then I'm leaving again.” 

Peter reached out for him. He ducked underneath his arm and pushed through the doorway. Peter followed close behind. 

“Don't touch me,” he hissed when he felt Peter's hand lightly graze his shoulder. He gave Peter the most spiteful glare he could muster and turned back to the bedroom. 

Peter only looked exhausted.

“Stiles,” the wolf sighed behind him. 

Stiles focused only on collecting his things. They were all right where he'd left them. The bed looked untouched. Even his pillows were haphazardly strewn across the sheets. 

Peter hadn't slept there last night. 

Stiles furrowed his brow, all sorts of suspicions raising in the back of his mind. He thought of Christopher, the man he didn't know, and wondered when the last time Peter contacted him _really_ was. Had their bed known of Chris before he had? 

“What are you even doing here?” He could feel Peter's eyes on his back. He grabbed his favorite pillow from the bed and tucked it underneath his arm. 

“I called out of work. I didn't really feel like going in after my mate stormed out on me last night.” 

“Don't try to play the victim,” Stiles rolled his eyes. “You're the last person who should be playing the victim card right now. This is _your_ fault, Peter.” He dropped to his knees and felt underneath the bed for his book bag. 

“I know that,” Peter crouched down beside him. He placed his hand on Stiles back, which Stiles was quick to jerk away. 

He glanced over at Peter for a fraction of a second. 

“Despite what you might be thinking, I do have feelings and I _do_ care about you.” Peter said quietly. “It hurt when you stormed out.” 

“It hurt when you lied to me,” Stiles snapped, feeling around with his hand under the bed for his infuriatingly hard to reach backpack. “Look, just please leave me alone? I don't want to deal with you right now.” The throbbing in the back of his head intensified. 

“You practically reek of alcohol – your breath does, at least. Have you been drinking?” He knew how Peter felt about him drinking, and that tiny smidgen of disapproval in his voice made Stiles' hands clench tighter. As if Peter had any right to be disapproving. 

“Yup,” he said as he found and pulled out his school bag. He rifled through it, just to check that all the textbooks and his laptop were tucked snugly inside. Without looking at Peter he stood and went to the attached bathroom. He grabbed his tooth brush and a couple other things. When he turned around Peter was in the doorway again, his head tilted to one side. 

“I know this is hard for you-” 

“You don't know the half of it.” Stiles rolled his eyes.

“-But we can work through this.” 

“I don't know if we can.” Stiles clenched his eyes shut and rubbed his temple. The pain in his head was worsening and Peter wasn't making it any better. 

“At least stay and have breakfast with me,” Peter persuaded in his most gentle voice. “I'll make you pancakes. It'll help settle your stomach. We can talk if you want. Only if you want. You're my mate, Stiles. I want you to stay here. Stay with me.”

Peter extended his hand out, his eyes were so soft and comforting. The outstretched palm invited him closer. His fingers twitched to lay his hand down upon it, to feel Peters fingers curling around his own in a warm, loving grasp. He could stay and have breakfast with Peter. He could say 'I forgive you' and feel Peter's stubble against his cheek as he kissed him softly, his arms wrapped tight around his waist. Just like every other time they'd fought before, he could let Peter make it up to him with caressing motions, a whispered waterfall of praise and adoration, along with all the tender gestures of affection he could take. He could feel himself falling back into Peters web of love and deceit.

“No,” he said with a sharp shake of his head. The sudden motion made him wince as the sledgehammer in his brain struck hard against his skull. This time wasn't like all the others, it wasn't like he'd insulted Scott or stared at another boy for too long. Those things seemed so minor now, so forgivable. He couldn't forgive something this big, not in exchange for a quick kiss and a cuddle. 

“Apparently I'm _not_ your mate. Why don't you go ask Chris if he wants breakfast?” He wouldn't let himself slip back into their usual post-fight routine. Peter would make him breakfast, and he would eat it in agitated silence until the silence grew too loud. He wouldn't let that happen this time. He couldn't let Peter cook his way out of this one. 

“Or maybe you already did?” He kept his voice as even and unemotional as he could. 

Peter moved closer, he was almost a foot away. 

“No, Stiles. I'm telling you the truth when I say I haven't been in contact with him. It's not like I cheated on you. I might have lied, yes, but I did that so I could keep you. You wouldn't have stayed with me if you knew what name was really on my arm. Even your _father_ didn't want to ruin this for you. I lied because I love you.” Peter stretched his hand out again. Stiles smacked it away. 

“What else have you lied about, because you love me?” Stiles ducked out of the bathroom before Peter had a chance to corner him. He almost didn't have the energy to keep searching through his things. He grabbed a pair of pants and some T-shirts out of their shared dresser, he had to force himself not to take anything that Peter gifted to him. He left behind the college sweatshirt Peter bought him when he got accepted into Berkley, and the red hoodie that Peter said made him look like Little Red Riding Hood. It was hard. Most of his clothing had been picked out by Peter. 

“Nothing, Stiles. I swear it.” 

“I don't believe you.” 

“You don't have to, just let me make it up to you.” 

“And how do you intend to do that?” he managed to assemble a small pile of T-shirts and jeans in his arms. He rolled them angrily into a ball and stuffed them deep into his backpack, along with his bathroom toiletries and set the pillow down on the bed. He had to pound his fists on top of the bag to make everything fit. “Pancakes and cuddling aren't going to fix it this time.” 

Peter faltered. “I'm not sure,” he admitted. “But let me try? I want to try, Stiles.” The wolf was right behind him. Stiles turned around, their faces just an inch away. He looked as if he were about to kiss him, and Stiles mentally prepared himself to push him away. 

Then, Peter threw his arms around him and just _hugged_. He hugged him close and tight. His nose pressed against his throat. 

Stiles closed his eyes. It was easy to let himself be enveloped in the older man's firm arms, trapped against his muscled chest. Stiles let out a quiet sniff. He kept his arms stiff and down at his sides. The hug didn't fill him with the warmth he expected it too. It felt cold and forced. He didn't know the person who was rubbing his back. He didn't know what Peter's intention had been, he didn't know if he was telling the truth, or lying again. 

“Peter, no.” Stiles tried to push away but the wolf refused to let him move. “Peter, let go.” 

“I'm not letting you leave,” Peter growled, hugging him tighter. “I love you too much.” 

“Peter, stop.” Stiles pushed with more force. Yet again Peter only held him tighter to his chest.

“I want us to be together, Stiles.” He whispered. “Chris means nothing to me. I love _you_. I want _you_.” With one finger he tilted Stiles chin up. Peter frowned down at him, his eyebrows lifted. Yet there were no tears in his eyes. 

“So he's _Chris_ , now? Not Christopher?” Tears flooded into Stiles' eyes. Peter didn't comment, but he didn't let up on his hold either. Stiles bit him squarely on the shoulder, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh, just underneath the T-shirt. Peter jerked and released him. 

“I don't trust you, Peter.” Stiles wiped at his eyes as he backed away. Peter looked more genuinely upset and maybe even scared then Stiles had ever seen him before in his life. “I . . . “ Stiles took a second to compose himself, his eyes swimming with tears. “I don't know if I'll be back but I just, I just don't trust you right now. I have to go.”

He stood and collected his bag. 

Peter was silent until he got to the door, then he was right behind him again in a sudden, sweeping movement. 

“Then why did you come here at _all_?” he purred huskily in his ear.“You could have asked your father to come collect your things, or Melissa. Instead, you came by yourself. You came because you wanted to see me. You _hoped_ you would see me.”

“No,” Stiles shook his head again. “I came because I needed my things. I didn't want to see you. I didn't even know you'd be here.” He felt the tears burning his eyes again. 

“Shh, don't cry. I _am_ here. We're going to work this out, okay?” 

He knew what Peter was doing, trying to seduce him back into his heart with comforting words, soft smiles, and maybe just a little more realness than he was used to showing. 

“No.” Stiles shook his head. “Please, Peter. If you really care about me you'll just let me go. Let me go, Peter.” 

“Stiles, baby, please don't go. I know you're mad – you have every right to be. Just give me a chance to explain.” He leaned down for a kiss, Stiles jerked his head away. 

“There's nothing to explain. You lied to me about being my mate. You lied to me about so much shit, I don't know if I can trust you now. I certainly don't want to hear whatever lie it is you've come up with to trick me into staying.” 

“Stiles, I swear to god. I will not lie to you. You don't really want to leave me, do you, baby?” Peter pushed him up against the wall. Stiles turned his head to the side, a few tears leaking from his eyes and rolling down his cheek. Peter wiped them away with his thumb. “It's alright, sweetheart.” 

“No, it isn't.” Stiles shook his head and took a deep breath. He shoved Peter away from him and scooped up the clothes he'd dropped. 

“Stiles!” Peter pleaded. “Stiles, you don't know what you're doing. You're just upset right now.” 

“Yes, I am. I am very upset.” Stiles crammed his things into the book bag, zipping it up carefully. 

“Stiles. Wait. Stiles.” Peter chased him. “I'll tell you where Christopher Argent is. You can ask him yourself. _He'll tell you_.” 

Stiles tensed. “You said you didn't know where he was.” 

Peter recoiled. The guilt in his eyes was plain to see and it made Stiles blood boil in unspoken rage. “That may have been a-”

“Lie?” Stiles glowered. 

“Less than truthful,” Peter admitted. “Look, I do know where he is. But I haven't contacted him since High School. Not since before I even met you. I swear, there is nothing between us.” 

“I don't want to meet him,” Stiles snapped. “I don't want to meet the guy you'd rather be with.” He shoved his bag into the jeep and clambered inside. “How do you know where he is if you've not contacted him since High School?” Nothing about Peters story made sense. 

“Because,” Peter sighed. “I . . . you know how strong soul bonds can be,” Stiles winced. “Sometimes I can feel him getting closer.” 

“So you're already bonded to him? And you want me to meet him?” The first time Stiles laid his eyes on Peter Hale his soul bond felt so powerful and warm, like a white hot rod poking straight through his chest. He thought he might actually burst from excitement and feeling. He hated the idea that Peter already had that with someone else. 

“That doesn't change my feelings for you. I still _love_ you, Stiles. I want to be with you, not Chris. I don't care how close he is. He could live next door and it wouldn't change a fucking thing. I might have his name on my arm but he, he has someone else.” 

“Who's?” Stiles demanded to know. He crossed his arms. For all he knew this was just another dramatic lie Peter was telling to save his own skin. 

“He had your name Stiles, yours. Not mine.” Stiles stilled. “Yours. 

“. . . You're making that up. You're just saying things to get me to stay.” 

“Stiles. Think, our bond is-” 

“Our bond is _fake_. I'm the only one between us who can feel it. So don't try using that against me.” 

“Just because I can't feel it doesn't mean I can't _feel_. I've never felt more for anyone than I do for _you_. I love you, Stiles. You belong to me.” Stiles' fingers twitched, his eyebrows lowered, but Peter didn't notice. 

“To you, or _with_ you?” 

Peter hesitated. “With me, of course. With me.” 

“I don't believe you.” Stiles looked back up with wet eyes. “I don't know you,” he said, and it was the worst truth he'd ever had to face. “I don't know you, or who you are. I don't know what you want. I don't trust you.” 

This time, Stiles had to actually put the car into motion before Peter backed away. In the review mirror, Stiles saw Peter staring at the back of his car as he disappeared around the corner. For just a fraction of a second Stiles could have sworn he saw him crying. 

Even with his pillows and his most important possessions by his side, Stiles still couldn't bring himself to go to his fathers' house. A large part of him wanted to just turn the car around and drive straight back home, throw open the door, and tell Peter he wanted to make it work. But Peters last few words taunted him. 

_You belong to me, Stiles._ His voice echoed in Stiles' head and made it hard for him to think. He drove to the preserve, without even thinking of it. The preserve was safe and quiet. No one would look for him there. 

He just sat quietly, staring out the window with his hands still gripping the wheel. He remembered Peter chasing after him, he remembered the heartbroken look in his eyes. It didn't erase the terrible thing that he said. 

He wondered if Peter ever took their relationship seriously. Obviously, he knew there was another mate out there for him, maybe he'd been the backup. It begged the question of where Christopher Argent really was, and what name happened to be on _his_ arm. He was certain he'd die if it was Peters, throw himself straight into the ocean. The thought almost brought another bout of tears into his eyes. He was so tired of the sickening twisting and turning in his gut. Only empty water remained. 

Even if Christopher's arm bore his name and his name alone, it only opened another bottle of misery. Did it mean the three of them were destined to be miserable forever? He didn't know. He couldn't even begin to guess. He couldn't imagine them all coming out unscathed from this mess. 

Beside him his phone vibrated with unanswered texts from Peter, asking him to come back to the house and talk. 

He waited until the sun started to set in the sky before he turned the car back on and started to drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked the story please leave a comment below. They make me very happy <3


	3. Research

“Dad? Why is there a shotgun outside?” Stiles was hit with the smell of spice and sauteed vegetables the moment he passed through the narrow entryway of the old, worn kitchen.

“Ah, welcome home, Stiles.” The sheriff greeted nonchalantly.

The man stood at the counter next to a plate of freshly chopped bell peppers. He scooped them up with one hand and added them to the pan of oil resting on the stove, from which the delectable smell of home cooking emitted.

Stiles took in the sight of his father fumbling over a stove, his stained and tarnished recipe book faithfully propped on the counter. His face was clean shaven and he'd even bothered to bring out the 'nice' glasses. It wasn't difficult to deduce that Melissa McCall would be joining them soon.

“Peter kept driving by earlier, I thought it'd help get the point across.” 

Stiles winced at the mention of his former lover's name. “He came by?” He slid easily into one of the seats nearest the stove.

“He didn't park long enough for me to write him a ticket. I wish he had. I would have loved writing it.”

“I wouldn't doubt that,” Stiles muttered, half to himself and half to his father.

“Melissa's coming by later,” John continued without skipping a beat. “You should join us for dinner.”

“No, I don't want to interrupt your date,” Stiles shook his head. “You and Melissa have fun. Smells good, though.”

“Nonsense. She'd be happy to see you. It's hardly a date, anyways.” John scratched the back of his head. “It won't be a date at all if I can't figure out this recipe. Why does it want me to let the vegetables wilt. Wilt means _dead_.”  
“Not in cooking it doesn't. You should have just ordered Thai food,” Stiles sighed, standing from the chair and walking over to observe the meal. It had been nice living with Peter and having someone else to prepare food for him. He still took the helm on baking and sweeter things, but Peter had a natural talent for anything with meat in it.

“I would have, but I think she's getting suspicious of all the takeout boxes,” John joked, stepped aside to let his son take over.

Stiles looked into the pan which was a surprisingly healthy looking mix of kale, onions, yellow and red bell peppers, zuchini, and various mushrooms. It certainly wasn't something John would have cooked for himself.

Stiles fished out a piece of mushroom onto a fork and checked for cold spots. “I think you just need to let it simmer for a while.” He popped the piece in his mouth. It didn't taste too bad, a vast improvement for his days as a teenager. It was only due to his own skills as a chef that he didn't wind up eating steak and potatoes every night.

“Good,” said John with obvious relief in his voice. He pulled up one of the chairs and sat down. “Where'd you run off too, anyways? I came home and the jeep was gone.”

Stiles sighed. “I went to get more of my stuff from home. I have some homework due in the morning.”

“Oh?” His eyes held a quiet intensity that urged him to continue.

Stiles shifted his weight to the other foot. “Yeah. Peter was there. We kind of argued a little. Then I went to the preserve for a while. I went to the place where Scott and I used to hang out.”

“Where Scott and you used to get into trouble,” the sheriff corrected.

Stiles' lips quirked a little into a smile, but his facial muscles refused to hold the position.

“Yeah, that place.”

“So . . . do I need to get a divorce lawyer involved?”

Stiles winced.

“Or the swat team? There's a couple really great guys down in the violent crimes division who know how to make a werewolf disappear. I'm sure they'd be willing to perform a favor.”

Stiles gave a halfhearted attempt at a smile that ended up as a deeper frown.

“Now I know why Peter wouldn't marry me, it's because he _couldn't_ marry me. No one would let us.” He plucked another piece of mushroom out and tasted it. That one was hotter than the first and made him cringe. His stomach growled in happy appreciation of finally being tended to.

“It's not the end of the world, kiddo. So your name isn't on his arm, just means it's on someone else's.”

 _Someone else like Christopher Argent,_ Stiles thought bitterly.

“Do you think so? What if there's another person out there with my name, and then another person with that person's name, stringing all down the line continuously? What if all these stupid marks are is nonsense? It doesn't mean anything? Nobody's meant to be together, nobody means anything to anyone?” In his head, he saw a long line of unrequited love, spanning countries and nations.

“I'd like to think your mom didn't mean nothing to me.”

Stiles felt a pang of guilt. “You know I didn't mean it like that.”

“Melissa's name isn't on my arm, but I still love her just the same. Mine isn't on hers either, but we make it work.” The sheriff smiled wryly. “Sometimes, your soul changes, Stiles. People change, mates change. Sometimes you lose them. That doesn't mean you don't get to love again.”

“What does it mean, though, that Chris's name was there first? Does that mean he didn't love me these past few years, that he'll always love me less?”

“I can't answer that, Stiles. Maybe . . . maybe Chris's name was there first because you were born so much later then they were? You wouldn't have even been alive when Peter's mark came. If Peter never cared for you, then he wouldn't have bothered to hide it.”

“What if . . . what if I'm only ever going to love Peter?” The thought made Stiles stomach churn uneasily.

“Do you still love him?” John asked, without the judgment he expected to hear.

Stiles bit his lip. “I don't know.”

“You can love someone after your first soulmate, it just might take some extra work.” The sheriff reassured.

“Peter said Chris has my name on his arm.”

The sheriff's eyebrows lifted up in surprise. So at least there were some parts of the story he didn't know either.

“Well, that's different,” the sheriff said. He opened his mouth to speak again but the creaking of the front door made his mouth clench shut.

Stiles was quick to wipe the newly forming tears from his eyes.

Melissa McCall entered the kitchen, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. It wasn't often Stiles saw her without her scrubs and security ID. She looked beautiful, even under the fluorescent, flickering lights of his old kitchen. her big brown eyes met Stiles. Her face was a tight, no-nonsense expression. John stood up a little straighter.

“Peter is a bastard,” she said, setting her bag down on the counter and pulling Stiles into a warm hug before he even had a chance to say anything. He hugged her back tightly, giving in to the warm, motherly embrace. “I'm so sorry you had to find out this way.”

“So are you two the only ones who knew, or should I send out a public service announcement? Maybe get a spot on the news so it can be broadcasted?” Despite himself he couldn't help but to hug back. He'd always been a sucker for physical affection.

John looked as guilty as he could ever look.

Melissa pulled back from him and looked seriously into his eyes.

“We're sorry, Stiles. You know we didn't mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” Stiles said. “I just wish I hadn't found out from a picture in an attic.” He couldn't stay mad at Melissa anymore than he could stay mad at his own father, but it didn't take away the stinging he felt in his chest. Or the growling emptiness in his stomach, either.

“Stiles is joining us for dinner,” John announced before he could excuse himself. Stiles stomach rumbled a happy acceptance. “Or he might faint from hunger.”

Stiles smiled weakly as he was pushed back into his chair. They didn't have to wait long after that before the food was finished cooking and John put a large heap of vegetables into three bowls. Melissa sniffed at it suspiciously and looked to Stiles for confirmation. Stiles nodded and gave her a thumbs up. She took an apprehensive bite. Her face brightened with surprise.

“It's delicious, John,” she praised. She flashed the old sheriff a warm, approving smile.

John puffed out his chest a little.

The two of them weren't soulmates, but it was hard to say they didn't love each other with the same intensity. Their bond was just as strong as any two souls could be. When Stiles was younger he couldn't fathom why Melissa would choose to leave her husband, her mate, the one she promised her life too. In the cold light of what Peter had done it was much easier to comprehend.

“Melissa? Does Scott know when he's getting back from New York, yet?” Stiles asked once a lull appeared in their conversation.

The woman looked up, her face falling a little at the mention of her son. “No, I'm sorry. He's staying a little longer to spend more time with Kira, Hopefully, we'll get him back in the next few weeks or so.” Stiles nodded. “You want me to kick his ass and tell him to get back here sooner? I'm sure he would if he knew his best friend needed him-” she patted his arm sympathetically.

Stiles shook his head. “No, I don't think I could handle his puppy dog eyes staring at me. I'd actually appreciate it if you didn't say anything to him right now. I just kind of need time to think.”

“Okay, if that's what you want.” She squeezed his hand lightly in a reassuring way. Then, a little more lightheartedly she said; “you just tell me when I can start setting you up with some of the cute nurses at work, okay?” She winked.

“Thanks,” Stiles gave her a feeble smile. “But I think I'm done with this whole 'mate' thing. Probably for life.”

“Well, you let us know if there is anything we can do for you, alright?”

“Actually,” Stiles fiddled with his fork. “There is one thing. Dad, can you help me find Christopher Argent?” The sheriff's face darkened. “I think I need to see his soul mark for myself.”

“I can look up whatever you need at work and bring it home for you. His soul mark should be a matter of public record, all I'd need-”

“No,” Stiles shook his head. “Please. I need to see it for myself. This is something I have to do.”

“If you're certain.”

Stiles wasn't certain, nothing right now was certain, but he needed to know if there was _anything_ Peter hadn't lied about, then maybe he could start rebuilding his bridge of trust.

*

“You have five minutes,” John warned as Stiles stepped inside the office. It was perhaps the only time the sheriff had ever allowed his son access to confidential information on purpose, and likely would be the only time. Even when Stiles had been searching for Peter the sheriff's station had been strictly off limits. He couldn't so much as squeeze past the receptionist without two burly deputies escorting him back outside.

Stiles sat down in the stiff desk chair and quickly typed in the username and password to grant him access to the many databases.

“Do I want to know why you already have my information?” John raised an accusing finger.

Stiles didn't answer him.

“I'm changing it the second you leave here,” he warned.

Stiles flicked his eyes up and smiled meekly. Then he went back to the task at hand. The sheriff took a quick glance out into the hallway and shut the door behind him, leaving his son alone to his search.

Stiles' fingers floated over the keys in hesitation. He bit his lip. It wasn't his purpose here, but it was perhaps the only chance he would get for clarification the matter. He already had Peter's papers, Chris's could wait another minute or two. He typed a few keywords into the search bar, and within thirty seconds the entirety of the Hale Fire articles were spread out in tabs across the screen.

Stiles' eyes scanned over the pictures and texts and soaked up as much information as he could. The house had hardly been scorched before the blaze was put out. Only the basement was badly damaged, and of the eleven inhabitants inside only Peter had been injured. He clicked his way through the information he already knew about, until he came to the things he didn't. The things Peter was unwilling to share. The wolf shut down completely at every question directed at him about that night. His fist would clench shut, his eyes narrowed, and he stared out at the world with a cold indifference. He did the same thing when Stiles asked about his soul mark.

He didn't quite know what he was looking for, amongst the documents and reports. Most of it was standard stuff, arson information, how the fire was spread, how much of the house was damaged, and what personal belongings it had taken with it. There was a lot of insurance papers, none of which were any help to him.

It wasn't until he found the arrest reports that he knew what he was seeking. The only suspect and subsequently the only convict for the crime had their name stricken from the papers. Even John had never mentioned whom the arsonist had been.

“Katelyn Argent- arrested on eleven counts of attempted murder, and arson. Police thank anonymous tipster for alerting them to suspicious behavior. In her car responding officers found lighter fluid, mountain ash, and matches.” He whispered the words out loud as he read them, scrolling in on the article. None of the other papers about it had mentioned her name, none of the other papers mentioned a name at all, only 'suspect in custody.' There was nothing about her arrest, her conviction, nothing. “Neither father Gerard Argent or brother Christopher Argent were available to comment.” _Brother, Christopher Argent._ A chilling tingle went down Stiles spine. He bit his lip sharply.

A whole new set of questions and red flags raised in his head. He slumped against the chair, resting his hands in his lap. Peter never outright stated it, but occasionally he'd get this weird look in his eyes while talking about soulmates, like he didn't believe it. Like he didn't believe they were real. Every single inconsistent, uncommitted look flashed in Stiles mind. He shook them from his head. He didn't have time to sit there and let Peter cloud his thoughts.

He scrolled through the rest of the article, it mentioned a plea deal, the conviction, but nothing more. He closed out of it and typed more words into the search bar.

Christopher Argent's file was quick to pop up, along with a photo from his driver's license, and several dozen permits he'd requested. The first couple were normal business licenses, the rest were for an odd manner of guns and weaponry. Stiles almost laughed, so Chris was just as murder-happy as Peter, who was born to be a natural predator.

He stared at the photo of the man who would be Peter's mate, if not for circumstances he'd yet to discover. He was older, like Peter, and more mature looking too. His face was dark and serious, but his eyes were light and his face was clean shaven.

Underneath all the photos and permit requests was a number for his business office, a home security company. He pulled out his cellphone and without thinking dialed the number and pressed the phone to his ear.

He held his breath as the phone rang. First once, then twice, the third time it gave a soft 'click.'

“Argent Security, how may I assist you?” A gruff voice answered over the line. Stiles mind went black. He looked at the photo, listened to the voice. It sounded like it could be the same person. His fingers trembled around the black device he held.

“Hello?” The man asked.

“Oh, um . . . . . I . . .” Stiles could think of nothing to say. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. It wasn't like he could have a life-changing phone call in the middle of the sheriff's office in less than ten minutes.

“Do you need help?” the gruff voice softened with concern. “Are you in need of immediate assistance?”

“Yes,” Stiles responded without thinking. His heart seized.

“Okay, tell me what-”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and disconnected the call. His heart thudded in his chest. Just as the number disappeared the door to the office swung open. Stiles jerked back and raised his hands in the air, away from the keyboard.

The sheriff looked over at him. “It's just me,” he said. “Times up, kid.” He motioned with his hand. “We gotta get you out of here before someone realizes you shouldn't be here.”

“Oh,” Stiles' shoulders relaxed, he dropped his hands down onto his lap.

“You get what you want from there?” the sheriff nodded his head towards the computer.

“Almost,” Stiles put his hand on the mouse. He scrolled the mouse over the JPEG file that would contain Chris Argent's soul marking. It was so within reach, literally a button press away, and yet he couldn't find it within himself to just press that half an inch downwards. His finger twitched. He moved the mouse and exited out of the image.

“I got what I needed,” Stiles said. “None of it's what I wanted.”

The sheriff frowned. “Are you at least satisfied?”

“I think . . . I think I have to meet Christopher Argent. Then maybe I will be.”

“You sure that's a good idea, kid?”

“Well, he can't be any more of a sociopath than my current ma-. . . then the one I already know. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“It's about the Hale fire. Do you know who sent the tip in? I read that an anonymous call alerted the fire department.”

“That was the week your mother gave birth to you. I was on leave at the time, so I didn't respond to any of the calls. I wasn't even part of the investigation.”

“But, do you know who the tipster was?”

“No one knew for sure, but most people believe that the brother, Christopher Argent was the one who submitted it. There were some rumors that he and Peter had some sort of relationship without their parent's approval.”

“Is that why you were so suspicious of him?”

The sheriff nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for reading n.n if you liked please leave a comment.


	4. Practicality

Finding Christopher Argent shouldn't have been as easy as it was for someone who ran a security business. It still took him several days to work up the courage to actually seek him out, and even now he hardly had the nerve to confront him. He'd just recently moved back to California after years moving from place to place around the country. Stiles wondered if he was being drawn back to him, or back to the deceitful wolf. He tried not to give Peter’s words too much meaning, he still didn't know if they were true or not.

He waited a few houses down from where the man lived in a large house much bigger than the one he shared with Peter. When the door opened Stiles heart skipped a beat, and there he was. Wearing a black jacket and jeans Christopher Argent stood, a travel mug of coffee in one hand and a laptop tucked under his arm. Dark blonde stubble covered his chin, just like Peters. His hair was less styled and the first word to pop into Stiles mind upon seeing him was 'practical.' Stiles just . . . he couldn't see this man as the type to cheat. He walked down the steps of his home and got into the Black SUV parked in the driveway.

For a second Stiles hesitated. He knew what he was doing was wrong. The right thing would be to turn around immediately, or get out of his own vehicle and confront the man. Yet, when the car slid out of the driveway and rolled down the street Stiles found himself following.

It made him feel like a complete and utter creep, but his heart hurt too much for him to care. He needed to see the person Peter was bonded to, the person Peter once loved. The person who may have tried to burn his mates house down. The man who came out of the house, well, looks could be deceiving. His face might be honest but his heart might be wicked.

They only drove for about fifteen minutes or so, with Stiles keeping at least four or five cars behind at all times. He parked several houses down from where Chris eventually stopped his vehicle and went to work.

He felt surprisingly little as he watched the man do his job. He walked his clients around the outside of their home, pointing out potential security risks and how best to deal with them – at least that's what it looked like he was doing. The man smiled and reassured them that everything would be alright. The woman gripped her husband’s hand tightly, a serious look on her face. The man seemed less afraid, but he still kept glancing at the security installer for reassurance. He kept his eyes fixated on Chris's arm, but it was always conveniently covered by his sleeve.

Beside him his phone vibrated again; another text from Peter he was unwilling to read. By now the wolf figured out that he wouldn't be returning any calls, and he'd taken to sending all his pleas in word form. Three voicemails awaited him, and countless texts. He thought of just turning the blasted phone off, but he couldn't find the strength to make even that minor decision. Driving out to the northern part of beacon hills had taken any excess decision-making power he'd had, and watching Christopher across the street sapped him of what little remained.

He grabbed the phone off the seat and looked at the messages.

_Stiles come home._

_Seriously, I just want to talk._

_You can't avoid me forever._

_Nothing is going to change unless you-_

He was jerked from his thoughts by a hand closing around his shoulder. His jeep door swung open with a force and the hand gripping his clothes yanked him roughly from the vehicle. He dropped his phone to the ground as he was pinned against the car door. Before him Christopher Argent stood, eyes narrowed into angry points. This close up Stiles could see the faded blue of his eyes, and the way his dark blonde hair was beginning to go lighter in certain spots. Stiles stilled. His breath caught in his throat. His hands balled up at his side. Chris's eyes were the same as Peter’s, blue, determined, unwavering. The only difference was the brief flash of confusion as the man stared down at him.

“ _You're_ the one who's been stalking my clients?” he asked. His voice was gruff, disbelieving. His voice was deeper than his, even deeper than Peters. It didn't contain the same, smooth, persuasiveness that Peters naturally carried. It was raw, controlled, but honest. Try as he might Stiles couldn't stop comparing the two.

“What?” Stiles brow furrowed. “I haven't been stalking _anyone_.” _Well, except maybe you,_ he thought, feeling only half guilty. The man took in his expression. The tightly gripped fist in his shirt relaxed. His jaw unclenched itself.

“What's your name?” The man asked, his voice was kinder now. The little trace of animosity was gone. The hand he'd held Stiles with dropped back to his side. He looked at him curiously, a strange sort of recognition on his face. Stiles remembered when he had that same feeling when he'd laid eyes on Peter for the first time. He remembered the bubbling of warmth in his heart. He hadn't needed to see Peter's wrist at the time, he just _knew_.

Stiles swallowed. “I have a feeling you already know,” it came out in an unintended whisper. The sickening feeling in his gut worsened.

“I think I do,” the man smiled weakly. It sent a spike through Stiles heart. So Peter hadn't been lying. The first truth he'd told since the incident and this had to be the thing he was honest about. “It's nice to finally meet you. Could you tell me how to pronounce your name, so I can call you by it properly?”

“Don't bother,” Stiles shook his head. “No one can pronounce it. Not even my dad. Call me, Stiles.” Chris nodded and took a step back from him.

“It's nice to meet you, Stiles.” He sounded honest, genuinely happy to be meeting his would-be mate for the first time. He had no idea what was about to happen, and the thought made feel Stiles sick.

“Why haven't you tried to find me? Why are we only just meeting now?” His throat constricted. His hands were still balled up, and his nails were beginning to hurt the tender skin of his palm.

Chris took a moment before responding. “You would have been just a baby when I got my mark. I didn't think your parents would have wanted a teenager in their delivery room.” Chris gave a subtle smile that barely lifted his lips. “I thought you would want to get through high school, at least, before you had to deal with a mate. Especially one so much older than you. I guess I thought I was sparing you from having to give up certain parts of your life.”

“It would have saved me a lot of heart ache. You didn't spare me from anything.” Stiles said, causing another flicker of confusion to cross Chris's face. He reached for Stiles arm. Stiles quickly pulled it behind his back. He hadn't realized he'd stayed pressed up against the jeep.

“You won't find what you're looking for there,” he said bitterly. “Life's cruel and heartless like that.”

Chris's frown only intensified. “I'd like to see it for myself,” Chris said, holding his hand out once more for Stiles' wrist.

“Once you see it, you can't unsee it.”

“I'd still like to, though. I'll show you mine if you show me yours?”

“. . . . Okay,” Stiles agreed, taking his arm out from behind his back. This was what he'd come here for, after all. This was something they needed to do. Even if it was painful and unpleasant. Chris likewise held up his own arm and pulled up his sleeve. Stiles did the same.

There, against the older man's wrist, just the same, and exactly how he'd expected to see it on Peters was his name. It struck him like a rock to the chest. His name was on someone else's arm. Someone who he was just meeting for the first time, and yet that mans name was not the one he bore. On his own arm, the name 'Peter Hale' stuck out, in much darker lettering. His eyes started to water but he stuffed the tears down, pushed the pain and bitterness to the back of his mind. This wasn't how things were supposed to be, it wasn't how they were supposed to be at all.

“Of fucking course,” Chris said through gritted teeth. “He's your soulmate?”

Stiles swallowed. “I don't know if I believe in soulmates,” he said. His heart and his faith were beginning to break. “Not anymore. Peter and I were . . . I'm not sure what we are now but we _were_ together.” Stiles shoved his sleeve back down again and lowered his arm to the side.

Chris sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Those tears in your eyes tell me you used to believe in soulmates very, very much.” Stiles' lips trembled as Chris wiped a salty tear from his eye. They were more calloused, more firm, than Peters smooth, soft skin. Chris didn't look any happier. His jaw was clenched in a way that reminded Stiles of his father. “So he's still trying to ruin lives, is he?”

“I spent three years with Peter before I found out my name wasn't on his arm. Be happy you've only had to wait six minutes.”

“Do you love him any less, now?” Chris asked, and it sounded like a genuine question, not a judgment or an accusation.

“. . . No.” Stiles said in a pained voice. “I still feel our bond tugging at me when we aren't together. But he loves _you_. We were living together, you know. He said he was going to marry me, before I found out we legally couldn't. He said he was just waiting for the time to be right. He might as well have promised me breathable water.” He didn't know why he was telling Chris all of this. It felt a little cathartic to rant and rave at someone who wasn't the wolf or his father.

“I guess it should make me feel a little bit better, knowing you hate him as much as I do.”

“I don't know if I hate Peter,” Chris said. “I definitely don't like him.”

“Did you know? Did you know that Peter had your name on his arm?”

“Yes, I knew.” Chris closed his eyes and rubbed his temple with two fingers.

Another stake hit Stiles right in the stomach. “Why didn't you stay?” he asked.

Chris opened his eyes. “How much has Peter told you?”

“Enough,” Stiles said simply. “He said you knew each other in high school, and haven't contacted each other since then. Have you?”

“No,” Chris shook his head. “He didn't lie to you about that. We haven't spoken since High School.”

“Why didn't you stay?” Stiles demanded. “He's supposed to be your mate. Why didn't you stay here with him? Why didn't you look for me when you knew he wasn't?”

Chris looked down at him. He was only an inch or so taller, but it was enough to make Stiles feel tiny under his gaze.

“Because relationships are complicated,” he said. He cast a backward glance at his clients, watching them from the doorway of their home.

“What happened with the fire, Chris? Is that what complicated your relationship?” He looked into the man's eyes, trying to discern if he had the mentality to kill in cold blood. His father always said you could tell a monster by looking into their eyes, but in Chris's solemn blue-grey sights he only saw pain and confusion, not malicious intent. “Did you try to kill Peter?”

The man's face hardened at the question. He looked back towards the house. “A lot of bad things happened that night, but I wasn't the one who set the fire, and I never tried to hurt Peter. What has he told you about me? What lies has he made you believe?” He looked back to the boy.

Stiles shook his head. “Nothing. He's told me literally nothing. Even if he had, I don't trust him like I once did. I'm not going to let him lead me astray again. I'm not going to let you do that, either. I've seen the police reports, and the crime scene photos. I know you're sister was the main suspect. I know she was arrested for it.”

Chris nodded. “She was arrested and convicted. Look, I'd like to explain everything, but now isn't the time or the place.” He gestured towards the couple watching from the window. “Why don't you meet me later, at my home? We can discuss it then. I'll be able to answer every question you have, and maybe you can answer some of mine.”

Stiles swallowed and thought. It was so much, things were moving so quickly, but he wanted answers. He needed answers. “. . . I'll go if you can answer my questions.”

“Yes,” Chris said, nodding. “I can give you better answers than Peter could, at least.”

“So you know he's a liar too?”

“Better than anyone.” Chris smiled wryly.

“Not anyone.” The smile was not returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for late update. Just been extremely busy lately.


	5. Forgive Don't Forget

The house looked the same as it always had; the hedges were immaculately trimmed, a black van was parked in the driveway. He should have known Chris would be driving a van, it was _practical_.

Chris stood in front of the doorway, which had gained a few missing chips of paint along the side since their youth. He’d grown a little taller, his hair a little shorter. He was more muscled than the athletic teen he’d been in his youth. His eyes looked at Peter with a wavering dissonance. 

Peter’s heart lurched as they made eye contact. He felt something flutter through their soulbond that wasn’t quite relief, but not apprehension either. 

“Are you happy now, Argent?” Peter leaned against his own much shinier vehicle with his arms crossed over his chest. He could barely keep his eyes from bleeding into gold.

Chris closed his eyes for a moment and took a steadying breath. What little emotion livened their soulbond was quick to disappear. He adjusted the laptop underneath his arm. “It's good to see you, too, Peter,” said his would-be mate.

“I bet you're happy. You've gotten to steal something else from me.” Peter hummed. He couldn't get rid of the painful, electric feeling of hate and fear mixing tumultuously in his chest.

Stiles still wouldn't answer his calls, though every so often a few little dots would appear on screen, only to shy away again. He'd spend hours just staring at the texts, willing his mate to come back home to him. He wished Stiles could feel his emotions just as strongly as he felt his, it would make things so much easier. Instead he was stuck with _Chris'_ who was so calm and steady, who never felt a thing. _He_ was the real sociopath amongst them.

Chris, with his stable, steady job, and no obnoxious family members tethered to him like a brick. Why wouldn't Stiles choose him anyways? They were both so much alike, in their stubborn, resilient way. Of course, Chris would get to keep Stiles, and Peter would be left alone again, without his musical, happy mate, who'd looked at him so adoringly before, and now looked at him with only scorn in his eyes.

Chris wouldn't care about that, Chris only cared about Chris. He was glad the mark on his arm was gone and the skin surrounding it dead.

“I didn't steal anything from you. I wasn't the one who lied to that kid. That was you, and you alone.” Chris stood firm in his posture, refusing to give into Peter’s pointed looks.

“Like you weren't just trying to ruin this for everyone. You've always had to ruin things. I loved Stiles, and you had to come back here just so you could steal him. Did you think I wouldn't _know_?”

“I ruined everything?” Chris asked incredulously. He set his laptop down and walked right up to where Peter stood. “You're the one who said that if you ever found that kid, you'd hurt him.” Their blue eyes locked together. Peter's heart heaved with a tug from his soul bond, the bond that felt just the same as the fire on his wrist had. The fire that had been growing stronger, and stronger, the closer Chris got.

“At first, yes, I wanted to hurt Stiles. I wanted to make him suffer the way you made me suffer, but the past is the past. I love him, and I'm not going to let you _take him_.” He considered flicking his claws out, but thought better of it.

“Fine, maybe you do love him,” Chris said, giving Peter the death stare. “But do you appreciate him? Or was he only ever a commodity to you? I think _you_ were the one who wanted to steal from somebody.”

Peter was taken aback.

“A lot more than you ever appreciated me.” He pushed himself away from the car. There was no reason for him to be there. He couldn't smell Stiles on Chris’ clothes, and it was pretty evident that he was not inside the house either.

Chris sighed. “You know, maybe if I'd gotten to know the Peter who could make Stiles cry like that, we could have –“

Peter turned his face away so Chris wouldn't see him cringe. His soul bond throbbed painfully. “You never even gave me a chance. You just wanted to-” he cut himself off. He wouldn’t give Chris the pleasure of hearing his voice break.

“I should have,” Chris said solemnly. It was surprising enough that Peter turned his head back. “I should have tried, at least, to be more than just your friend. You knew what my dad was like, you saw who my sister became. I was just so afraid I was the same as them . . . markless. I did try to protect you, Peter.”

Peter’s frown turned to a wry smile that hurt his face. “The same way I tried to protect Stiles?”

Chris did not respond. He looked back towards his car. Their soul bond shifted. A small trickle of pain leaked through.

“When is he coming home?” Peter asked. If Stiles wasn't with Chris than he was still with his father, and the sheriff's gun outside the door had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't welcome to drop by anytime soon. 

“I don't know, we didn't talk about that.”

“What did the two of you talk about?”

“The past, only the past.” Chris looked back at him. His face was genuine. 

“Good,” said Peter. “Keep it that way.” He turned on his heel and yanked open the door of his car.

“He said he still loves you.”

Peter looked back at Chris, who watched him with a carefully concealed expression.

“If I were you, I'd make damn well sure he knew that you loved him back, because he's hanging onto your _relationship_ by a thread.”

“You don't know anything about our relationship,” Peter snapped. He slid into his car, he turned the key in the ignition. In his periphery, he thought he saw Chris about to approach the car, then stop and back away. 

Peter didn't check the rearview mirror as he drove away. He couldn’t. s

His hands gripped the wheel tried as he traveled down the posh streets of Chris' neighborhood. In the back of his mind a blurry memory of running barefoot across one of the perfectly manicured lawns played in his mind. He felt the morning dew and mud underneath his feet, cold and wet.

He pushed the memory away. It had little relevance now. He didn't care about Chris. He cared about Stiles, about what the two of them had built together.

Chris' words came back to him at that moment, _he's hanging onto your _relationship_ by a thread_.

Peter scoffed. No, that wasn't true. It was almost laughable.

Yes, Stiles was upset, but they had been together for three years. Three long, arduous years.

Chris didn't know the half of it. Chris didn't know how Stiles came running to him with his eyes glinting and face beaming every time he passed another exam with flying colors. He didn't know how much it hurt when Stiles cried in his silent way, watching tears fall down his solemn face. He didn't know how good and warm it felt to hold Stiles safe in his arms in a midnight embrace, huddled up on the sofa away from the rest of the world. The way he and Chris used too, back when hiding from their parents was their biggest concern.

In the privacy and quiet solitude of the car it was harder to keep the thoughts and memories that plagued him at bay. The sight of Chris' face, the feel of his soul bond as it flared in proximity to him. The way he remembered Chris smiling at him from across the hall at school.

He quickly slammed his hand down on the radio, not caring where he'd hit. The machine flared to life and filled the suffocatingly silent space with music.

Peter kept his eyes on the winding road and let the sound of the radio drown out his thoughts. When he started to recognize the words he wished he hadn't.

He fumbled around on the passenger side of the car until his fingers grazed the cold material of Stiles iPod, still plugged in and blasting his usual list of top ten songs.

Peter's stomach knotted and churned. He yanked the cable from the iPod, not taking his eyes off the road for a second. When it took him longer than he wanted to disconnect the machine he thought of just chucking the thing out of the window, but it had been a gift from Stiles father and to destroy it would be to break Stiles' heart, and Peter couldn't do that to him. Not again.

The device disconnected. The upbeat music changed to the overly-pepped voice of a talk show host. It occurred to him belatedly that he just could have switched the settings on the radio to make Stiles music stop playing.

He drove the rest of the way back to the house feigning interest in the words the host had to say. By the time he arrived and turned off the car he couldn't even remember what her name had been or even what the station number was.

He went back inside, ignoring Stiles red jacket, slung over the back of the sofa. He laid down on it, ignoring the jacket and turned on the television. Despite his best efforts he was keenly aware of Stiles scent, clinging to the material beside him.

It did little to soothe the ache in his chest.

_Oh, yeah, that guy almost didn't take this role because-_

_She starred in another movie alongside-_

_The most difficult shot to film was the one right outside the dinner, when-_

Stiles disembodied voice rattled off movie trivia in his brain. He could hear it so clearly in his mind. 

When Stiles favorite show came on, Peter opened his mouth again to shout for him, then remembered that no one was there to come trouncing out of the bedroom with their laptop under one arm, and an over-caffeinated energy drink in the other.

There was no one to watch the show with. Nobody to cuddle up next to him. It felt wrong, criminal even, to watch without Stiles.. Did he even _want_ to watch without Stiles? A fundamental piece was missing.

He grabbed Stiles jacket from the back of the sofa and without thinking pressed it to his face, inhaling the scent of his love embedded in the cloth.

When he pulled his face away there was a single wet spot that turned the fabric dark. He scowled at it and wiped away the tears that formed in his eyes without him noticing.

Stiles was gone and Peter had no idea when he'd be coming back.

*

Stiles lay in his bed unable to sleep. His mind raced with all the questions and answers he'd received over the past few days. He'd spent several hours writing down everything he could of what Peter and Chris said, referenced with what he knew from the police reports. It was all he could think to do, and doing something was better than doing nothing.

The rest of the day he'd spent pretending to catch up on all the school work he was already several days late on. The backpack he'd been so sure to grab from his house sat unopened on his desk. He found himself researching soul bonds every chance he could get. He found a news article about a group of friends in high school who got each other’s marks on their arms; a trio just like himself, Peter, and Chris. Most people believed the group was faking it, yet some others thought it was an abomination of god, they accused the trio of being mentally ill.

He chewed on his nails as he read article after article of soul mark horror stories. One woman thought she'd gotten the mark of one of her high school classmates, only to find out the one she was really bonded to was his _father_ who shared the same name. He'd hear stories like these when he'd been in high school and everyone was just starting to step into adulthood and develop their marks. 

The teachers warned them constantly to be cautious; people changed over time and just because a person found their soulmate didn't mean they should be so quick to jump in bed with them, or try to get married right away. Stiles wished he had listened to them more, he'd been in the 'married right away,' category of students.

His heartstrings pulled him towards Peter, towards the home that didn't feel so much like home anymore. He thought of Chris' huge house and how barren it was compared to the cluttered walls of his and Peter’s house. It wasn't as extravagant or luxurious but it was theirs. They'd painted the walls together the first year they moved in – a blue color that Peter said reminded him of a dusky sky. His heart gave another fierce tug and he whined pitifully. It was painful, physically painful to have avoided him for so long. His bond knew what it wanted, and it wanted Peter. He clenched his eyes shut.

He thought of the man who'd died a few hours after his mate was killed in a car crash; he'd never even gotten the call that she was dead, the sheer pain of having her ripped from his heart so suddenly was enough to put him in the hospital. 

The opening theme of Star Wars blared into the room, and a blue light emanated from within his desk drawer. Stiles wiped his hand across his groggy eyes and fumbled around for his ringing cellphone. He missed the call button a few times before the green circle finally got tapped. The sweatiness of his palms made the phone slippery as he pressed it to his ear.

“Hello?” he asked groggily.

“Stiles? Are you okay?” It was Chris. 

Stiles heart tightened.

“. . . No,” he answered honestly. “Why are you calling me?” His chest pounded against his ribcage. The air constricted in his throat.

“Because I felt . . . something. It was faint, but sharp. It feels like you're in a lot of pain.”

“Are we bonded?” Stiles asked in wonderment. Through his bond he could feel Peter’s pain as well.

“No, but I think we're beginning to be.”

Stiles stifled the groan that threatened his throat.

“What's wrong, Stiles?”

“Nothing, just my boyfriend of three years lied to me for our entire relationship. I can't feel it, you know, our bond. I can't feel our bond the same way I can feel Peter’s.” He wished he could, he wished he could sense how Chris was feeling, how he felt about the entire mess. His bond tugged him towards Peter once again, Stiles curled his knees up to his chest in a vain attempt to alleviate the aching.

“Well . . . soul bonds are complicated things. It's not like you can study them in a lab. We haven't had time to strengthen our bond yet.” The clinical way he described it strangely made Stiles feel better.

He rolled onto his nod and gave a quiet, affirmative noise.

For a few minutes there was silence on the other end of the phone, until Chris spoke again. “Would you like to meet me for coffee tomorrow?”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Stiles asked. He shifted his pillow so it was held between his arms and squeezed. It wasn't quite as nice as cuddling a naturally heated werewolf, but he could make due. The little familiarity it brought eased the knot in his stomach some.

“Would you accept it, if it was?”

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

“Then it's not a date, just two people who have finally found each other meeting for coffee.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like you've done a lot of listening lately, and not so much talking. I get the feeling you have a lot to talk about.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed. “I'll go on your not-date tomorrow.”

“Good. I have work until two, I can meet you after that?” Chris promised to send him the details and after an awkward goodbye Stiles hung up the phone. He buried his face in the pillow and tried once more, in vain, to fall asleep.

An anxious knot in his belly kept him awake. 

“Shit, fuck,” he grumbled as he brushed a hand through his tangled hair. _I could just cancel_ he thought while he lightly thumbed over the touchpad. Except, maybe this was something he needed, a chance to talk instead of listen.

Right now, though, he needed something different. He needed Peter.

He got out of bed and quickly threw a red hooded sweatshirt over his head. He snagged the keys from his nightstand and took the stairs two at a time. He hardly remembered the drive passing as he drove from his father's home back to the one he'd come from.

He knocked on the door three times and waited. His body reveled in the knowledge that Peter was close. It felt out for him and his emotions, which were so much easier to sense now that they were close. He'd never been able to sense Peter this well, not even when things had been fine between them. He knocked again when the werewolf didn't answer soon enough. He could hear the rustling of him moving around inside. He felt a small shock of hope run through him.

Peter opened the door, his hair was brushed back in a sleepy mess. He took a few blinks before he recognized the boy standing in front of him. 

“Stiles,” he breathed, “you came home.” Peter reached out his arms in relief to hug him. Stiles moved back.

“What's wrong? Did Chris hurt you?” The relief faded to worry and anger. His eyes went golden. “What did he do?”

Stiles shook his head. “He didn't do anything. We just talked. He told me his side of the story, but now I need to hear your side of the story, Peter. I've heard his, now I want yours.”

Peter looked up towards the descending moon. “Wouldn't it be better to wait until morning?”

“No,” Stiles shook his head. “Now. I need to hear it now.”

Peter opened his mouth to protest. Then he closed it, shook his head slightly and stepped back from the doorway. “Alright,” he agreed. “Come inside with me.”

“No. If I go inside I'll never be able to leave again.” He took a step back.

“Sweetheart, if it were any other time of day I'd indulge you, but you're obviously in pain.” Peter reached a hand out and gently swept away some of the sweaty hairs that clung to his forehead. Stiles pressed into Peter’s hand, reluctantly finding relief in the familiar gentle touch. 

Peter smiled weakly at him. “I've been there before; I know how it feels. The feeling that you're drowning isn't going to go away until you either snap or give in. Sitting in our bed would make you feel better. Trust me on that.”

Stiles thought of his big, warm bed, and couldn’t help but believe that what Peter was saying was true. His bond wanted his mate. 

“. . . Alright,” he agreed and let himself be led back into the house. 

Peter was right, the second he smelt their commingled scents and saw their possessions lying scattered about the room his chest untightened. The knot in his stomach unraveled itself. The clog in his throat cleared. 

He took a deep breath and crawled onto the bed onto the bed, grabbing one of Peter’s pillows along the way. He curled up on the far side and nestled the pillow to his chest. 

Peter followed in after him. The weight of the bed shifted as he sat down beside Stiles.

“I'm sure Chris told you about how I reacted to him getting a different soul mark?”

“Yeah, he said you didn't take it well.”

Peter scoffed. “That’s an understatement. He wasn’t too pleased either we ... “ he paused and looked at Stiles. “Could you forgive me a third time?”

Stiles felt his heart sinking. “Depends what needs to be forgiven.”

Peter sighed. “Chris and I did know each other in high school. Quite well, actually. We were friends first and then something a little _more_.”

“More?” Stiles repeated. His fingers played with a stray strand on the corner of the pillowcase. “How much more?”

“Not as much as I would have liked,” Peter admitted with an evident bitterness in his tone that nearly made Stiles wince, “and only ever behind closed doors. Our families hated each other. His father was a bigot; my sister was unforgiving. Sometimes I snuck over to his house, sometimes he visited mine. It was always hidden."

Stiles furrowed his brow. “Chris said you burned yourself. He said you weren't in the house at the time of the fire.” He rolled onto his side and looked up at Peter to judge his reaction.

Peter cringed. Stiles stopped himself from instinctively reaching out to comfort. The memory had always been a sore subject for him, and not without good reason.

“He's not . . . he isn't wrong. I was . . . upset. I thought the reason Chris' mark never came was because he didn't want it to come. We were supposed to get each other’s markings. When I showed him mine he told me to hide it, to just pretend I never got one. I couldn't understand why. He said his arm was blank, but he wouldn't show me so I just thought he was lying. I wanted to think he was lying.”

Peter leaned against the headboard. He steepled his fingers over his chest and looked wistfully towards the window.

“Then what happened?” Stiles pressed.

After a moment Peter looked back at him.

“We were learning about the human experiments back during the wartimes in class. We learned about this girl who never had a soul mark. Some people thought she was lying, others thought maybe she had some sort of disease or was hiding it for some reason. I just felt like if Chris wanted his mark, he would have it.”

Peter shrugged. “It was unfair. I could see every time he looked at me how much he wanted his mark, I could feel it in my chest through our bond, but the lie was the easier to take. I didn't want to think I'd forever be bound to someone who wasn't bound to me. I didn't handle it well, neither of us did.

“His sister found out somehow about my mark. It was probably through Derek,” he sighed. “She burned my house, and a few weeks later the entire Argent family was gone, including Chris. I was alone.

“For a while I blamed him, cursed him, hated him. Then one day, I still cared but just a little less. Every day what seemed like a bottomless pit of despair started to fill out, until it didn't hurt anymore. The emptiness was still there, but it didn't hurt. That's when you showed up.”

“I showed up,” Stiles repeated.

“You did.” A little flicker of light crossed Peter's face. “Bounding up and so excited. I thought of Chris immediately, and the no longer empty pit was empty once again and it _hurt_. It was like having everything I'd built up inside of me sucked out until I was raw. So I smiled, we talked. All the while I kept thinking about him.”

“Why didn't you just tell me?”

“Because. . .” Peter hesitated. “This is the part you may not want to here; sure you want to continue?”

Stiles took a deep breath. “I'm still sure.”

“I didn't tell you because I'm a bad person. I didn't think of you as someone I could love, I saw you as someone meant for Chris and it made me angry. I wanted to hurt you, to see those beautiful brown eyes turn dark and dead, and swimming with tears. I wanted to break you, like he broke me.” Peter’s knitted fingers clenched and then relaxed.

Stiles let out a sudden, bitter laugh. “So our entire relationship was based on your attempt to get revenge on an ex-boyfriend, your real soulmate, and mine?”

“No, just the first three months.” Peter said it like it was negligible. “But Stiles, I promise, I hate seeing you cry. I don't have any envy left for Chris anymore, all I want is you.” He unfolded his hands and gently rested one against Stiles cheek.

Stiles pulled away. “So what changed? What made you think I didn't deserve to be destroyed?”

“I fell for you,” Peter dark gaze softened. “I felt entitled to you. I didn't want to hurt you anymore. I thought that I deserved you. Chris couldn't love me, so his mate should. I guess I wanted to have you so that no one else could. I was jealous of a guy who wasn't even around. When we first met you wanted to be together all the time, and, honestly, it kind of annoyed me.”

Stiles furrowed his brow. “I thought-”

“I know, I know. I let you believe that it was something I wanted, too. After a while I got so used to you being there, that the thought of you just . . . _not_ terrified me. 

“You probably don't remember this, it was . . . maybe two or three weeks after we met, but, you'd fallen asleep doing school work. You didn't answer my calls, or my texts. I thought maybe you found out, about what my arm actually said.” Peter's face turned guilty. “I thought you'd run off, or something had happened. I felt robbed, you'd made my life worth living again, and to just suddenly find you missing was . . . it hurt. So very, very much.

“When I found you you were face down in a chemistry textbook on your bed.”

“I do remember that,” Stiles said, the hazy memory coming back out from behind a wall of obscurity. “I woke up and you were cuddling me. I thought it was sweet, I thought it was a sign that we were supposed to be together.” The memory was soured with the knowledge that Peter hadn't loved him up until that moment, if that could even be considered love and not simple, pure, _possession._

“How many of our memories were based around lies?”

Peter looked down at his hands. “. . . It's hard to say. Nothing recent.”

“So at the end of the day you were using me, to get back at a guy I'd never met. That's what you wanted?” Stiles wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “That doesn't make me feel any better about this.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn't. I can't feel your hurt Stiles, not the way he can, but, I can still _see it_. Maybe at one point I did want to hurt you, but now it’s killing me. Stiles, I know you can feel our bond. I know you can feel my chest right now, and how much it aches for you.”

Stiles kept his expression controlled, even as the torrent of pain and regret surged through Peter and into him. 

“I couldn't imagine life without your laugh, just as you couldn't imagine life without my love.” Peter insisted, placing a soft hand against Stiles cold cheek. 

Stiles winced, because it was true.

“Fine, I'll come home.” 

Peter moved to hug him. Stiles put his hand up between them. “I'll come home, but I'm not forgiving what you did. We're starting over, completely. I'm not sleeping with, kissing, or cuddling you.” Stiles shook his head. “As far as I'm concerned we just met each other.”

Peter's eyes darkened. Slowly, he nodded his acceptance. “Alright,” he agreed. “We'll start over if it proves that I want you for you, not just to piss off Chris.”

“Good,” Stiles said, relaxing his shoulders.

The first night Stiles spent back into the house he'd helped create was just as painful as the night he'd spent away from it. Peter kept looking over at him, his eyes so longing and his fingers twitching to hug, hold, and comfort. 

Stiles was almost miserable enough to let him. At a certain point both their anger and pain became so entwined he didn't know who was the more unhappy.

Peter maintained a respectful distance even as he crawled underneath the covers with him, his body several inches from Stiles own. 

After several awkward minutes spent in silence Stiles turned around so they were facing each other. He didn't say anything, just let himself enjoy the weight of another in his bed, sharing his blanket. It was nice to not have to sleep alone.

Another few minutes passed before he allowed Peter to wind his arms around his torso. 

*

“Chris? Do you love me?” Stiles fiddled with the cup in his hands, it was heavy and full of black coffee he'd barely taken a sip of.

“What kind of crazy question is that?” Chris asked. He wore a dark jacket over a white shirt and jeans. His casual clothing was similar to Peter’s, all one color, and mostly dark with a splash of white. It took Stiles a while of waiting in his car outside the shop before he could actually work up the courage to go inside. It felt too much like a date, and what scared him was how much he didn't hate it.

“Please, just answer it.” 

Chris took a long pause, figuring his words. He spun his spoon around his own coffee. 

“Not yet.” 

Stiles heart sank. 

“With time, I'm sure-”

“So you don't love me, and Peter doesn't love me.” He scoffed. “Of course.”

Chris frowned. His eyebrows knitted together. 

“I haven't gotten to know you yet. I could give you superficial reasons, like how you're beautiful, caring, and you must have impeccable patience if you can deal with Peter for the long haul, but those are all surface traits. It's not love until I know who you are when no one else is watching, when you've nothing to prove and nothing to gain. Real relationships take time, and effort. They don't just happen because we want them too. The world would be a lot easier if they did.”

“If you could have chosen your bond mate, would you have chosen Peter?”

Chris abandoned his spoon in favor of running his fingers through his hair. “The Peter I knew in high school was vindictive, manipulative, narcissistic. The list goes on.”

“He's pretty much the same now. He tracks down old books for wealthy collectors for a living, at least that's what he tells me he does. I think it's just because he can't handle having a boss to report to.”

“Wouldn't surprise me.” Chris frown lightened into the bare ghost of a smile. “When we were in high school Talia made him get a job at the local ice cream parlor-”

“Peter worked at an ice cream parlor?” Stiles raised a brow. “He hates people, especially kids.”

Chris chuckled. 

“He loves kids, actually, he just pretends to be a big old grump. He absolutely adores his nieces and nephews. He's an asshole, sure, but he not to kids. Not until they're old enough to realize he's an asshole, anyways. I think he worked there for about a month or so; the women and children loved him, but anyone who didn't tip always mysteriously wound up with food poisoning.”

“That . . . doesn't surprise me as much as it should,” Stiles said with a short laugh. “But you’re avoiding the question. He was your soulmate. Didn't you want to make it work?” He studied Chris’ face curiously, weighing what he knew of Peter and what he had only recently learned about Chris. 

Chris hesitated. “I wanted to. I knew he cared about me, but he was immature and selfish.”

“But you found a way to love him anyways.”

“I did,” Chris sighed. “I tried too. It’s too complicated to say for sure what I would have done back then if things had been different.”

Stiles nodded and accepted the answer. He wasn’t quite satisfied with it, but in comparison to the other ones he’d received lately it was the best he could hope for. At least for now. 

They finished their coffees and chatted a little bit more. Stiles answered some questions about his father and how long he and Peter had been together. 

After an hour or so Siles felt his eyelids beginning to droop. It wasn’t that late in the day, but all the stress had worn him down. 

Chris walked him to his car. He leaned down. Stiles jerked away, Chris' lips met his temple instead of his lips.

The man pulled back and took a step off to the side. “I'm sorry,” he quickly apologized.

Stiles bit his lip and steeled himself. “What happens if I choose to stay with Peter?”

“Then, you chose to stay with Peter,” Chris said.

“Will you disappear again?” He thought of Peter’s pained expression, of the way his suffering leaked through their soul bond when he described Chris’ rejection.

“No,” Chris shook his head. “I'm done hiding in the shadows. I'd be annoyed with Peters constant presence, but I'm not willing to force you to be with me and abandon him. I think choosing would be too taxing on your heart. Maybe it’s time Peter and I had a chat.”

“I'm tired of secrets and running around behind each other’s backs. Maybe it’s time we all had a chat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all who helped me obsessively prune this chapter, and thanks to everyone for waiting so long for me to update it <3


	6. Working Together

Stiles slunk down lower into the passenger seat of the police vehicle. He felt like a little kid who'd been caught skipping school, only back then he'd always felt pride at being dropped off in his father's police vehicle. He griped and groaned, but inwardly his tiny chest fluttered happily at letting his classmates see him in the big, shiny police car. Only before the sheriff hadn't wanted to threaten his friends. 

“Dad, this isn't necessary.” 

“Not necessary for you, but I have a right as a father to protect my son.” 

“You can protect me without getting an assault rifle involved,” Stiles said, hugging his bag tight to his chest. He let out an aggravated sigh and slunk lower in the seat. 

“I left the guns at home – most of them- I just want to get my point across. I never got the have 'the talk' with this Chris fellow.” John gripped the wheel tight and glared pointedly out the windshield as they continued to drive along the narrow streets. 

“You won't need to. I already told them that if this whole situation turns into more bullshit then I'm done. Forever. Gone. I'll be markless, just like Peter.” His heart reeled at the thought. 

John reached over and gave his wrist a comforting squeeze. “I know you're still hurt. That's why I think this is a bad idea.”

Stiles sighed. “I have to face reality eventually. As much as I'd like to I can't just sit in my old room forever and pretend I don't have a life I need to get back too. I haven't been at school in over a week.” 

John rounded the corner and approached the blue house at the end of the street. A black van was already parked outside of it. Peter sat on the steps with his head in his hands. To the right of him Chris stared at his phone with an uneasy expression. Peter's mouth was moving, but he was talking too quietly to be heard.

Stiles jumped out of the car before it was even in park. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked Chris. 

Chris looked up. “You said you wanted to meet here.” 

“I told you I'd text you when I got here. Why are you here already?” 

“Because I left when I got your text? Traffic was slow, so I got here sooner than I thought I would. Is that a problem?” Chris asked as he pocketed the phone.

Stiles bit his tongue. Paranoid thoughts ran through his head. He looked between Peter and Chris. Peter sat with his body angled sharply away from Chris, who's eyes were fixed firmly on Stiles, his expression set in a tight neutral. 

“No,” he said curtly. 

“Why are the police here?” Chris asked, motioning towards the police car. 

“The father,” Peter sighed. “You'll like him. He also lives for the chance to hurt me.” 

John leaned out the window of the car. He was watching Peter with a deadly gaze. From the cruiser John waved. “Nice to meet you Chris.” He turned his death stare to the man at Peter's side. 

“Good to meet you too,” Chris gave a wavering smile. “I believe you helped put my sister in prison. Thanks for that.” 

John nodded. “Either of you gentlemen want a personal tour of the facilities I'd be happy to give you one. I can even get you some uniform-” 

“Dad,” Stiles hissed. “Not. Now.” 

John leaned back inside and drove off, honking a final threat. 

“What were you two talking about?” Stiles asked. 

“Nothing. We were just waiting for you to show up,” Stiles eyed Peter suspiciously. He wished he had the senses of a wolf, to know whether or not Peter was lying. He obviously felt the suspicion in his gaze.

“Peter's telling the truth. We were just waiting here for you to approach.” 

“Your mouths were moving. I saw you talking,” a spark of paranoia ignited in the back of Stiles brain, the paranoia that Peter and Chris might actually realize they were better off with each other than without.

“I asked him if he knew if you were on your way, that's all. If you can't trust Peter you can at least trust that I'm not trying to deceive you, I don't have any reason to.” 

“Oh, yeah, other than the-” 

“Please?” Stiles said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we wait like, ten minutes, before we start fighting? Please?” 

Peter's lips pursed close. 

Chris awkwardly looked away. “Maybe we should go inside?” he offered. 

“Yes, let's,” Stiles pushed past Peter who sat on the stairs and yanked open the unlocked door. He trudged inside and dropped his duffel bag on the floor before claiming the only single spot in the room, the plush armchair shoved up against the windowsill. 

Peter was the second to skulk inside, and he quickly took position on the couch closest to Stiles, leaving Chris to sit on the smaller sofa next to the window. The three looked around cautiously. Chris coughed into his hand. Stiles scratched the back of his neck. Peter cleaned out his nails.  

“So, Stiles, any specific reason you've decided to bring this stranger into our home?” he asked, putting deliberate emphasis on 'our.' 

“I just don't want anymore lying. I want to get things out in the open. Don't you?” 

“No,” Peter scoffed. 

“Of course you don't,” Chris said with a sigh. “I'm sorry Stiles. I do want to move forward. I'm sure on some level Peter does too.” He relaxed in his own seat, although his stance was still less casually than the wolfs. 

Peter eyes lightened, but his mouth remained closed. 

“I guess I'll go first then.” Stiles said with a sigh. 

“Peter,” the wolf turned to look at him. “I don't . . . I feel like I don't know you anymore.” It was harder then he thought to say the words out loud. He swallowed down the lingering indecision and carried on. “I'm not leaving you for Chris, but I'm not staying to spite him either, and I'm not kicking him out of my life. Can you please just, just tolerate him? For me? For now?” 

“I can tolerate him if it means I can be close to you. I love you far more than I could ever hate him.” Peter shot a lasting glare at the man on the other side of the sofa. 

“Do you still love me?” Chris asked. 

Stiles fingers dug into the armrest. His heart did a tiny somersault. 

Peter tensed. “I -” he started and then abruptly stopped. “I don't … I don't _hate_ you,” he said. “I wouldn't call it 'love.'” 

“I'm not trying to break up whatever it is that you have with Stiles,” said Chris, looking down at his hands. “I'm not trying to hurt you or destroy what you've built. I just want a chance to get to know the person whose name is imprinted on my arm. Can you understand that?” 

Peter was quiet for several seconds. Through their bond Stiles could feel his turbulent emotions colliding with each other like two opposing waves, before giving way to a reluctant acceptance. 

“Yes, I can understand it. I'm not okay with it but for his sake, I'm not going to force you away.” He didn't look at Chris when he said it. He focused entirely on his nails, specifically on cleaning the dirt out from underneath them. 

“Thank you, Peter,” Stiles said. His shoulders relaxed. They weren't fighting, yelling, or screaming. Maybe things could still be peaceful after all. 

Peter nodded and lifted his head up slightly. 

“If I ask Stiles to accompany me somewhere are you going to get upset?” Chris asked. He angled his body towards Peter. 

Peter looked up at him, finally meeting the other man's eyes without anger to cloud his vision. 

“A little,” he admitted. “But as I said before, I will _tolerate_ it. Are you going to be fine with Stiles living with me, and sleeping in my bed?” 

Chris nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. “I'm okay with that. You two – you two have been together for a long time.”

“We have,” Peter agreed. “We love each other.” 

“Does that mean that we're not going to keep secrets from each other anymore?” Stiles asked, letting himself enjoy a brief moment of hope. 

“I won't lie to you,” said Peter.

Stiles wasn't quite sure he believed him, but he was willing to let the matter rest for the moment. 

He looked to Chris. “You won't lie to me either, right?” 

“I'm not here to make you upset,” he said. “I just want to get to know you, that's all.” 

“Thank you,” Stiles said. He felt like he could finally breath for the first time in what felt like months. “Okay, I'm done. Who wants to go next?” 

“Why would someone need to go next? We agreed to get along, that's what he came here for,” asked Peter. 

“I don't know, maybe to get rid of this dark cloud that's hanging over you? You must have _something_ to say to each other. Something that's not about me? You haven't seen each other in _years_ and you're soul-” he cut himself off before he could speak the words that were sure to make everyone uncomfortable. “You were friends,” he tried instead. 

Peter looked at his nails again. 

After a couple seconds of waiting Stiles turned to Chris. 

“Do you have anything to say?” Stiles asked him. 

Chris looked at him and shook his head. “Not at the moment,” he said. “I'm sure I will eventually but for now I think we've done enough.” 

All things considered the rest of the conversation went surprisingly well. Peter clearly wasn't happy with the arrangement, and Chris kept shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Stiles couldn't keep his eyes on either face for too long before he felt like he was betraying the other, but, nobody screamed. Nobody fought. Nobody yelled out. It wasn't perfect, but for now they were okay. 

When Chris finally left Peter came up behind and wrapped Stiles into a warm hug. 

“I'm happy you're home,” he whispered quietly into his ear.

“I'm glad we're working through things,” Stiles said back. He leaned into Peter's hold, though his mind still felt disconnected. 

They lay together in their bed that night, neither saying a word. Peter kept nuzzling at his throat, and after a while Stiles indulged him by rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the wolves collarbone. Peter wrapped his entire body around him and held him tight. They fell asleep entwined. 

*

Stiles woke up alone. 

After everything that happened the previous day, he woke up alone. Singular, and forgotten. He glared at the empty pillow in front of him, at the cold sheets at his side. There was no apologetic breakfast, or werewolf carefully brushing back his hair. Not that those things would have fixed the problems they had, but they would have _helped._

He checked his phone and there were no new messages. When he called Peter's cell it went straight to voice mail. 

Stiles sighed and slumped back against the pillow, the cold phone resting in his unheld hands. 

Maybe things hadn't changed after all. 

He tried to fall back asleep but his mind tortured him. He felt for his bond but Peter's emotions were carefully guarded and that only intensified the nagging thoughts in Stiles brain. 

Fifteen minutes later he heard the living room swing open. He heard footsteps idling about in the living room, and the crinkling of paper. 

“Stiles?” a voice called out. 

“What?” Stiles bit back. He sat up and rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes. 

Peter appeared in the doorway of their bedroom, his arms folded behind his back.

“I brought you a present,” he said, flashing a warm smile. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes, determined not to fall victim to that charming smile ever again. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow. “What kind of present?” 

Peter's grin faltered if only for a second. 

“Hopefully the good kind.” He brought his arms out in front of him. In them was a bouquet of orange and red flowers interspersed with yellows, whites, and pinks. The flowers were held together with white paper. It was an image he'd grown very familiar with over the past several years. 

“You brought me flowers?” Stiles asked, almost disbelieving. He took the bouquet and gave it a tentative sniff. It smelled the same as it always did, just a little sweet. His dark look softened as he admired the colors of the petals. 

“Would you have preferred a different flower, I could-” he reached his hand out for the bouquet. 

Stiles pulled it back. 

He thought of the first time Peter brought him flowers. It had been maybe four or five months after they'd been dating. 

It felt so faint in his mind. The memory of Peter waking him up just past noon with the same bouquet of white and pink blossoms. He teased Peter for days afterward about his sudden burst of romanticism, which had Peter accepted with minimal snark. 

“Thank you, Peter,” he said with a soft smile, his anger at waking alone momentarily abated. “I love them.” 

Peter nodded. “I wasn't sure if 'starting over' meant starting completely over, but,” he let himself trail off. 

Stiles filled the silence. “I'm happy you bought them. They're beautiful.” 

Peter sighed and wrapped his firm, muscled arms around his mates torso. “I love you, so much Stiles,” he said “I didn't realize how much I took you for granted. I just assumed you'd always be there. You don't know how much it hurt when you weren't.” 

“I wasn't happy about leaving. I didn't want to leave.” Stiles let himself give in to his desires and laid his head down upon Peter's shoulder. 

“It's okay. We're together now, and we're always going to be. Aren't we, Stiles?” 

Stiles sighed. “I sure hope so.” 

“I wish I would have confessed sooner, then, at least you'd still have your trust for me. I love you.”

“I love you too, Peter.” He should have known better than to think that from that moment on there would be no more fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Tridom for always double checking my work <3


	7. The End

“I'm in college,” Stiles said as he pulled another book off of Chris' shelf. His eyes lit up at the illustrations inside, each hand draw and perfectly accurate. The science major in him delighted over it. He wished his phone weren't already ten percent away from death, or he would have taken more pictures.

“What are you studying?” Chris asked. He'd been nice enough to invite him over for what was essentially a date, but was respectful enough to keep it as casual sounding as possible. This time Stiles accepted the offer of dinner and Chris' cooking had been fantastic, on par with his own even. The remnants of his pasta sat beside a glass of wine on the coffee table. It was the only remaining space uninhabited by books.

“Supernatural biology,” he said, gliding his finger over the delicate pages of the tome. It was beautiful even in its ancient state. He made a mental note to come back later with his camera. “I want to work at the sheriff's station like my dad, just in the forensics department.”

He added the book in his hand to the pile he held pressed to his chest. He dumped them all onto the sofa next to Chris.He gave a meek smile before sitting down next to the books that lay between them. He felt a little bad that his book collection had stolen most of their time. 

Chris picked up a small red volume with a worn spine and a circular carving on the front.

“This was my favorite when I was a kid,” he said. “Most of it's inaccurate, but the stories and fables are still good.” He looked at it fondly before placing back on top of the pile.

Talking to Chris was so much different than talking to Peter. With Peter it was all flashing smiles and saccharine words that had questionable validity. Stiles had no proof as of yet, but he felt like Chris was the kind of person who would say what he wanted, when he wanted. There was a certain level of truthfulness in his clear blue eyes. 

“Have you read all of them?” Stiles asked.

“Not all, but most,” Chris smiled faintly. “My father was in the security business too. He wanted both of his children to be well read in the art of 'defense.'”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.” Stiles watched a tiny change in his expression that caused his lips to curl subtly downwards.

Chris pulled another towards him. He lightly traced the cover with his fingertips. “We . . . what he called 'defense' most would call 'assault and battery.' He thought the best way to defend your home against werewolves was to spray the yard with wolfsbane.”

Stiles winced. “Wouldn't that kill-?”

“At the very least poison. I for one try not to poison my neighbors.” Chris flipped the book open to a page that had a colorful illustration of a green snake eating it's own golden tail. He turned it around so Stiles could view the full image.

“That's an Ouroboros isn't it?” Stiles said. He took a brief sip of his wine before leaning in to admire the image.

“It is. I loved this story as a child. Many ancient civilizations used this image to depict the cyclical nature of time.”

“Meaning that even ancient peoples realized everything comes back to bite you in the ass?” Stiles arched a brow.

Chris tried to withhold his own smile and failed. “I suppose that's one way of looking at it.”

He felt a little bubble of mirth come from Chris' side of their bond, at least he assumed it was Chris' side. The more wine he drank the harder it was to tell where the emotions were coming from.

Chris continued to tell him all about his family's traditions and the books he read. He sorted through the piles of books Stiles made on the sofa and floor. He pulled out the ones that were factual and the books that were faked. They looked at illustrations of monsters and depictions of gods. Stiles found himself cuddling closer and closer with every passing minute, until finally his head rested upon Chris' shoulder with the man's arm around his waist. He sipped the last of his fourth glass of wine while Chris explained the nature of Joromungos and the trouble they caused back when the continent had been mostly forest.

“They live in the Rocky Mountains now, but occasionally one will get sighted in-”

“Hey, Chris?” Stiles interrupted. He sat up a little so they were face to face.

“What is it?” Chris looked back at him, his narrow lips turning into a frown.

“You're really smart, and handsome. Do a lot of people tell you that?” He reached his hand up and trailed his fingers down the sparse trail of stubble that covered his chin.

Chris smiled. “No, they don't.”

Stiles chuckled. “Well, they should.” He forgot his glass was empty and tried to take another sip.

Chris gently pried it from his fingers. “I think you've had enough for one night.”

“Aw, don't ruin things. I'm having fun.” He pouted and tried to reach for the glass again.

Chris pulled it from his reach. “I'm sure you are, but, I have enough moral sense not to take advantage of the drunk.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. He leaned up and pressed his lips to Chris' mouth.

The man didn't push him away. He didn't even tighten his lips or turn his head.

Stiles pressed closer. His fingers snaked up to Chris' collar and his arms draped over his shoulders. He leaned up to deepen their kiss.

Chris' hands settled on his waist. He felt his lips part and a tongue near his mouth. He separated his own lips in turn, but Chris pulled back. The hands on his body disappeared.

“Wh- Chris.” Stiles opened his eyes and blinked.

“You're drunk,” Chris said.

“No,” Stiles shook his head. “Maybe a little.” His eyes started to drift. “I think I should head home now,” he stretched his arms out behind his head. “I'm going to fall asleep.” He was a far cry from drunk, but the happy fluttering in his chest was enough to make him feel less than sober.

“Why don't you stay the night?” Chris asked as he closed the book.

Stiles bit his lip. “I'm not sure I'm ready for-”

“No,” Chris said suddenly. “Not like that. I didn't mean like, what I meant was on the sofa. Or in a guestroom?”

“Oh,” Stiles said.

“Oh, yeah. That would be nice, I guess,” he said with a slight grin. “It'll be just like a sleepover.”

“And in the morning, you can keep absconding with my book collection,” Chris said with a grin of his own.

“Sorry,” Stiles said shyly.

“Not at all,” Chris shook his head. “It's good that somebody's reading them. They haven't been opened for years. Not since I moved, anyways. Who knows when the next brilliant mind will come along?”

“I don't know about brilliant,” Stiles said. 

Chris smiled and held out a hand for him to take.

Stiles took it and stood up uneasily. His head swam and the world tilted sideways. He bumped into Chris's chest with an 'oomph.'

Chris's arm wrapped tight around his waist to steady him.

Stiles closed his eyes until the world stood straight again. When he opened them Chris was staring down at him with concern.

“You okay?” he asked. He arched a graying eyebrow.

Stiles smiled weakly back at him. “Yup. Fine. Just uh … a little weak on my feet? Maybe I shouldn't risk the stairs tonight.”

“At this point I wouldn't let you risk the hallway,” Chris said.

Stiles grimaced and allowed himself to be gently situated back onto the sofa while Chris gathered up the books that littered the surrounding area. He compiled them all into a little, precarious pile on the coffee table. Then he retrieved a throw blanket from the opposite couch and handed it over.

Stiles took it appreciatively and felt the fabric between his fingers. It was soft and smelled like Chris's cologne. He pulled it around his weary shoulders and lay down with his head against the armrest.

“Thanks,” he mumbled and closed his eyes for a second.

“Do you need anything else?” Chris asked, reverting to his unnecessarily formal tone. Stiles opened his eyes to see him standing there, stock straight, and looking uncomfortably to the side. He was so very different, but so very familiar at the same time.

Something tugged in Stiles chest.

“Do you want to lie down with me?” he asked, bravened by alcohol. He knew he might regret it in the morning but he didn't care.

Chris hesitated. He looked at Stiles for a long, calculating second. Then he nodded.

With a little bit of fumbling and a couple of uncomfortable limb placements Chris clambered over Stiles so he lay against the back of the sofa with Stiles pressed against his chest so close they could feel each other's heartbeats.

“. . . You don't feel so sad anymore,” Chris said quietly in his ear. His firm arms wrapped around Stiles waist and held him close.

Stiles sighed contentedly and fell asleep.

*

It had been a long time since Chris had felt the comfort of someone in his arms. Throughout the night he carded his fingers gently through Stiles messy disarray of hair. He listened to his breathing inhale and exhale. He felt his chest rise and fall with every passing second.

After a while he fell asleep himself and woke to the sunlight creeping in through the window. From the way the sunbeam settled itself on the carpet it couldn't have been any later than noon.

Chris thought about getting up to make coffee or some breakfast, but he couldn't bring himself to break the embrace he shared with Stiles even though his arm had long since gone numb. It felt so good to finally be with him, his chosen mate. He could see now why Peter had fought so hard to make things work out between them, and why he'd been so devastated when they hadn't.

At the thought of Peter his happiness waned a little.

What he felt for Stiles wasn't love, not just yet, but he was getting there. He was slowly falling for the fidgeting man and his doe-brown eyes. His defensive expressions were reminiscent of a young Peter, but aside from that there were few similarities he shared with his name-mate.

His heart panged as his mind filled with the image of bright blue eyes and hair just a few shades lighter than Stiles. He had missed Peter while he'd been gone. He had always missed Peter though he hadn't always wanted to admit it. He missed the way Peter looked at him back when they were in high school, like he wasn't the monster he thought he was sure to grow into. Peter made him feel human. He made him feel like his blood wasn't as tainted as his name.

A loud knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He frowned and looked to Stiles sleeping face. He hadn't so much as flinched at the sound.

Chris closed his eyes. It was likely just a postal worker dropping off a package, though he couldn't remember ordering anything.

After a couple of seconds the knock sounded again, only a little bit quieter and a bit more hesitant. 

_So, not a postal worker,_ Chris thought. 

With reluctance, he peeled himself back from Stiles body. It took a bit of maneuvering to extract his arm out from underneath Stiles's ribs. His muscles throbbed in relief at being freed. Disentangling their legs was a little bit harder, but he managed to do it with only a few unsettled noises from Stiles.

He stretched and headed towards the door, wondering if perhaps whomever it was that disrupted him had already given up and disappeared.

When he opened the door he was surprised to see a familiar face.

Peter stood with his arm half raised to knock again. He lowered it quickly and took a step back.

“Good morning, Peter?” Chris said. He struggled to keep from raising an eyebrow.

Peter nodded and swallowed. “Stiles didn't come home last night,” he said without returning the greeting. “He didn't answer my texts either. I came to see if he was with you?” His eyes scanned over Chris's body, no doubt taking in the messy hair and disheveled clothing.

“He's here,” Chris said. “He just got a little drunk last night. I didn't want him driving home.”

Peter nodded. “Good,” he said. “I could drive him home now, if you two are ...” he struggled to find his words, a rarity for Peter, “finished with whatever it is you were doing?” he cast as second glance towards Chris's wrinkled clothing.

“I didn't have sex with him,” Chris said.

Peter's face flashed briefly with relief, then he resumed his falsely nonchalant expression.

“Oh,” he said.

“Wouldn't you have felt it?” Chris asked. “If he and I were ...” this time it was his turn to struggle for words. Peter spoke before he found them.

“Not necessarily. I felt your happiness, that was about it. Can you really blame me for being curious?”

“No,” said Chris. He leaned against the doorway and ran his hand through his hair. “I can't blame you for that. I would be too.”

“He's still asleep I take it? You couldn’t wake that boy with a freight train,” he said with a hint of humor in his eyes. It was a tiny glimpse of the Peter Chris knew in the past. The one who was all charm and snark. Talking to Peter had been easy back then, back when there wasn't a wall of distrust between them.

“Yes,” said Chris. “Would you like to come inside?” he motioned with his head towards the living room. “I'd hate to make you drive back home and then come all the way back.”

Peter's eyes darkened. His expression stayed carefully guarded.

“You'd trust me in your home?”

“I don’t have any reason not too,” he said. 

“None at all?” 

“No. None.” 

They stood there and watched each other carefully. 

“I don’t,” he chose his words carefully. “I don’t dislike you. I’m not trying to chase you away.”

“You have an odd way of showing that,” he snipped. “Running halfway across the country isn't a very 'friendly' thing to do, especially not after your sister-”

“My sister and I are not the same person. What she did was awful and I'm sorry but I had no control over that.” He furrowed his brows. “I don't want to fight with you. This doesn't have to be unpleasant all the time. We could _try_ getting along.”

Peter huffed and crossed his arms. “Try? I _tried_ getting along. I waited for hours for you to show up after your sister tried to burn my house down. I tried to call you, but your number was disconnected. I tried waiting for you, for weeks I waited for you. You weren't 'trying' then. Stop acting like none of this is your fault.”

That entire week had been so hectic. He hardly remembered disconnected his phone or withdrawing from school. He remembered the endless barrage of questions from the police officers. Most of all he remembered seeing the flames and smoke that billowed up from the basement of the Hale household. He also remembered the searing pain in his chest when he saw Peter emerge from the home, escorted by firemen, and clutching his badly burned wrist.

“You burned your mark off, Peter. How was I supposed to think you would want to see me after _that_?”

“I didn't want you to _leave_. You were my mate. I just wanted us to be the same. I wanted our marks to match so you'd care.” His eyes wavered. He didn't have big, thick tears like Stiles, but they were still so visible cradled in the corners of his eyes. “I told you a thousand times, I didn't care if your mark ever came, I just wanted . . .” Peter’s voice trailed off. “I just wanted you to stop wanting someone _else_.”

Chris winced outwardly this time. “I didn't want someone else, I wanted to feel like . . . I just wanted to feel our bond before someone got hurt. When we were in class we were learning about breaking bonds. I thought you were trying too-”

“ _No,_ Peter interrupted. “Never. I wasn't trying to _break it_. I just wanted you to stop resenting me and if getting rid of our mark was the best way to do that …” he trailed off.

Chris's jaw tightened. “I didn't resent you. I don't resent you, even now. I couldn't. Even after all that's happened. I . . . I can feel Stiles’s love for you. I _missed_ you.”

“I just want everything to be okay, Chris.” Peter stepped forward until there was only a sparse few inches between them.

Chris opened his mouth to respond, then, instead of saying anything he closed the distance between himself and Peter.

*

Stiles felt a deep stabbing pain in his chest. He could feel Peter and Chris, he could feel their love and their heartbreak and it had nothing to do with _him._ They were feeling pain and sadness, but the agony was directed at each other. It was jarring enough to wake him from his sleep. He gasped and curled inwards. His arms wrapped around his stomach where he could feel it all so vibrantly and so painfully.

He could feel their obliviousness, they were so wrapped up in their own emotions they were forgetting to feel his and it _hurt_. It hurt worse than finding out Peter had a soulmate, it hurt worse than knowing Chris never sought him out. Even if their intentions had been good it stung like a wasp and made him wince.

He pried his eyes open and rolled off the sofa. His head pounded as he stumbled towards the door. As he got closer the feelings got stronger and he knew without seeing that just beyond the wooden doors were Peter and Chris, wrapped in each other like they were the last two people left in the world.

But there was a third. There had always been a third.

He stumbled towards the door. His hand reached out to grasp the handle but he couldn't quite catch it. He tried a second time and a third. On the fourth he made contact and yanked it open. His head pounded as the light assaulted his eyes.

There on the steps stood Peter and Chris, arms locked around each other, lips pressed, eyes closed. Stiles heart stopped. His breathing caught in his throat.

The two men broke their kiss and looked back at the person watching them. They separated in an instant. Peter hissed and looked at his hands as if they were traitors.

Chris just looked guilty.

Neither of them felt like they were remorseful. Upset, yes, that was the prevalent, but not remorse. There was maybe a tiny bit of guilt.

Stiles’s body slumped against the doorframe. He took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

“Stiles it's not-” he didn't know if it was Chris or Peter who spoke, but it didn't matter.

“It's okay,” he said. When he opened his eyes again they were glistening, but his tears weren't from sadness.

The horrid, gnawing, unnatural, pressurized feeling in his gut finally exploded with _relief_. The thing in his brain that had been screaming nothing was right finally whispered that they _would be_. His soul bond so fractured and frayed was mending itself. It wrapped around both of his mates like a cord and pulled taut. His heart didn't hurt. His brain didn't hurt.

“It's okay. We're going to be okay now, right?” he squinted his eyes open.

Peter and Chris shared a look. They moved forward and embraced him in a hug. Peter’s arms wrapped around his waist. Chris' wrapped around his shoulders. He rested his head on Chris' shoulder and let Peter nuzzle against his throat.

His heart bubbled over with warmth as he finally felt for the first time in weeks that this was the way things were supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone so much for reading all and leaving all the wonderful kudos/comments <3 it brightens my day. I hope you enjoyed the story, and thanks to my friends who helped me edit it

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the story, please leave a comment below. Thank you!


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